


if you love me

by transstevebucky



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (mostly platonic kissing. bros touch mouths and definitely dont have feelings about it), (not hl but ziall), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Pining, Platonic Kissing, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:34:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transstevebucky/pseuds/transstevebucky
Summary: “You could pretend to be my partner.” Harry has his hands tucked in his lap, like he’s making a professional business decision, and not destroying Louis’s life.“No.” He tries, and a grin stretches at Harry’s mouth. “I said no, arsehole.”“Louis,” and it’s not fair that Harry puts his puppy eyes on, “please pretend to be my fake partner so I don’t have to cry about lying to my mum.”“Okay,” it’s a nail in his coffin, and he knows that, “I’ll be your fake boyfriend.”He hopes the alarms in his head stop blaring soon.au. pretending to be your best friend’s boyfriend has never been so easy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i've been ghost for an entire year (to the day actually which is. um. yeah), but i come back bearing 35k of fic so i hope that makes up for it.
> 
> **some warnings:**
> 
>  
> 
> **-there's a lot of discussion about alcohol and drinking**
> 
>  
> 
> **-louis has anxiety, and as such there's stuff about anxiety attacks in here, so definitely watch out for that**
> 
>  
> 
> **-there's one instance (in a flashback) where louis and harry kissed when harry was 16 and (louis thought) drunk. this was proven false but if that squicks you take care**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> the title was taken from modern baseball's "your graduation"!

 

 

**if you love me**

  
  


_ For so many months I was wishing that you, _

_ That you would stop pretending. _

  
  
  


++

  
  


Harry scrolls through Wikipedia when he’s anxious.

 

It’s always been something Louis’s taken note of, the same way he takes note of everything to do with his friends. How Niall always cleans up after himself when he gets edgy; how Zayn starts playing with his belt loops when his skin starts crawling, how Liam always pushes himself harder at the gym when he’s upset. How Harry starts itching to scroll through online encyclopedias when he’s avoiding something that makes him feel skittish. He notices everything, because he’s a good friend. And also, maybe, because it means he doesn’t have to notice himself as much.

 

He likes to avoid that.

 

Harry’s is just a little more obvious, is the thing; not only because it’s Harry and Louis  _ knows  _ Harry, but because he’ll spit random facts for days after, like he’s clearing his system. Like if he talks enough about how yeast is formed, it’ll make Louis less inclined to ask about why he’s nervous in the first place.

 

Louis doesn’t know why he tries any more. It never works. Louis is, was, and always will be a nosy fucking prick. It’s one of his best traits.

 

“You’re anxious,” Louis notes, leaning over Harry’s shoulder to look at the screen.

 

The screen tells him it’s about internal combustion engines, and Louis just hopes Harry’s not going to try and build a car again. That nearly ended up killing them  _ both  _ the last time. (Not that it wasn’t a fun bonding experience, because it  _ was _ . He’d just rather a fun bonding experience in a place that  _ wasn’t  _ A&E at eight in the evening with a fractured wrist and bruised pride. Even if Harry had still managed to look good under harsh hospital lighting.)

 

“I’m not,” Harry denies, and Louis holds back the scoff he wants to give in response.

 

“So you just really want to know about how Étienne Lenoir made the first successful engine?” 

 

Harry sniffs. “We’re kindred spirits.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes. Harry’s a fucking loser, no matter how many times he’s tried to deny it. He might be an international pop artist, but Louis’s seen him piss the bed because he tried to do yoga when drunk out of his mind. Their friendship knows no bounds, and neither does Louis’s desire to embarrass Harry until he sulks for three hours and refuses to speak to anyone. He’s got it down to an art at this point.

 

“It’s alright to get nervous, popstar.” 

 

Louis nudges his nose against Harry’s ear and tamps down on the want to bite down a little. Niall’s voice in his head says something about  _ blurring the lines _ , and Louis’s not awful enough at decision making that he disagrees.

 

“Yeah, I know, but I’m not nervous, so it’s all good.” 

 

Louis wonders how much shit he’d get in for murdering his best mate. A lot, probably, considering how he’s loved by millions of people around the globe. Louis doesn’t know why, but he accepts it. He deserves a medal for dealing with Harry and his dramatics. (Like, Harry deals with him, which isn’t an easy feat, but Harry’s worse. By, like, at least ten percent. Maybe fifteen, even.)

 

“If you’re not nervous, why’re your hands shaking?” he nudges, and Harry lets out a sound like he’s been brutally wounded.

 

“They just do that sometimes,” he responds, and it’s a blatant lie. Harry has really steady hands, considering he spends half of his time falling over himself. It’s one of the nicest parts of him, probably, not that Louis would ever tell him that.

 

“Alright,” Louis agrees, and turns away. He hears more than sees the way Harry’s shoulders raise indignantly. As much as it’s like pulling teeth making him say why he’s nervous, being ignored makes him antsy. Like a cat. A really feral, irritating cat.

 

Louis counts down from five before Harry’s speaking, words stumbling over each other like they’re trying to fight their way out.

 

“It’s just, like, this whole thing with my mum, and she was asking, and I couldn’t help it, and. I don’t know what to  _ do,  _ because now she’s excited, and she posted something in instagram alluding to it, and.  _ Louis _ . Please shoot me.”

 

Technically, Louis already  _ knew  _ about the Instagram thing, because he has notifications on for Anne. He just hadn’t known what the caption had been talking about; something about Harry being ‘all grown up and swooning’, and Harry’s not making much more sense than Anne had. At least Louis knows where he gets it from.

 

Harry flushes pink when Louis just narrows his eyes, and a distant part of him recognises how cute it is. Nervous Harry is maybe his second favourite Harry, because nervous Harry blushes a lot. (For, like, aesthetic reasons, Louis likes that. Not any other reasons. For the aesthetic. Only.)

 

“Alright, loser, calm down.” It’s only because Louis’s known him so long (just over fifteen years, Jesus) that Harry actually slows to take a deep breath. His shoulders raise and then lower, and then he nods slowly.

 

“Right,” his voice is softer now, which Louis counts as a win, “it’s this whole...partner thing.”

 

The thing is, really, that Harry’s an expert in making poor choices.

 

He’s a great person; but he’s a shit liar and an even worse decision maker, and it gets him into a lot of bad situations that could have been avoided if he’d just shut his mouth. It’s even worse when it’s his mum, because he always feels guilty lying to her, and Louis’s spent more than a couple days trying to calm him down over it before.

 

Harry once fell out of a tree because it “didn’t look  _ that  _ high”, and proceeded to break his fibula. He’s not great at listening to advice, despite the whole pop stardom thing, and he’s even worse listening to his own. 

 

Coming from  _ Louis _ , the King of Horrifying Decisions, that’s saying something.

 

So he knows the look that comes over Harry’s face when Louis turns to face him, the look that says ‘I might have broken my leg doing something like this before, but you’ll go along with it anyway’. He knows the look because he’s not a fucking cretin, and he knows what it’s going to mean.

 

It means that Louis’s not going to be able to say no, no matter how hard he tries, and he’s going to end up in a bad situation with Harry. Again. Because, as stated above, Harry is a shitty fucking decision maker (has Louis said that enough? He doesn’t think so).

 

“It’s this whole partner thing,” Harry continues, even though Louis probably looks like he’s seconds away from pissing himself. “That my mum asked about, this whole spiel about whether I had someone I liked, because there’s this big thing next month that I have to go to and she wants me to have someone there. And I said yes.”

 

Louis has a vague feeling that he knows where this is going. It isn’t filling him with hope for his future.

 

“Right. Okay. Sure, but you don’t have a partner.” His voice is shaky. Harry’s going to kill him before he even reaches his mid twenties. 

 

It was a fun life while it lasted.

 

“Yeah, but  _ you  _ exist.” Harry looks right into his eyes, little half smile on his face, and Louis thinks (fairly nonsensically) that he looks like a Cheshire cat. Like a cat who got the cream, except the cream is Louis’s doom and inevitable demise. 

 

“No,” he tries, and a grin stretches at Harry’s mouth. “I said  _ no.  _ Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not agreeing to it. I’m never going to agree to it. I want to die.”

 

“ _ You _ could pretend to be my partner.” Harry has his hands tucked neatly in his lap, like he’s making a professional business decision, and not destroying Louis’s life.

 

“I don’t want to be anything to you ever again,” he says, “I’m never going to answer your phone calls. I’ll drop off the face of the earth, and it’ll all be your fault, and Liam’ll cry because he loves me. D’you want that? Do you want Liam to cry, Harry?”

 

Harry leans forward, and Louis thinks that the backdrop of information on internal combustion engines just makes the situation worse. 

 

If Louis had kept his business to himself and not cared, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

 

“ _ Louis _ ,” and it’s not fair that Harry puts his puppy eyes on, “please pretend to be my fake partner so I don’t have to cry about lying to my mum.”

 

“Okay,” it’s a nail in his coffin, and he knows that, “I’ll be your fake boyfriend.”

 

He hopes the alarms in his head stop blaring soon.

 

The thing is, really, that Harry might make the worst decisions known to man, but Louis doesn’t ever try to stop him. 

 

++

 

Niall just stares at them blankly when they tell him, which Louis thinks is a little rude, coming from someone who once tried (and failed) to drink his own weight in vodka shots.

 

If anyone can understand how shitty he and Harry are at making potentially life changing decisions, it’s Niall. 

 

“A fake boyfriend,” he repeats, like it’s the worst idea they’ve ever had. (It is, but Louis won’t ever let him know that.)

 

“Yes,” Harry says, his hand brushing accidentally along Louis’ back, “a fake relationship with a fake boyfriend. Louis being the fake boyfriend.”

 

Niall puts his head in his hands.

 

His voice is muffled when he says, “shouldn’t you have, like, a contract? Or something? Like ‘I vow to be your lawfully committed boyfriend for a month until the world realises we’re both liars and we have to go on the run’?”

 

“Will that happen?” Louis’s voice comes out a little higher-pitched than normal. Harry’s fans can get a little protective, actually, now that he thinks about it, and, oh, God. He’s going to have to go on the run. 

 

Niall blinks at him through his parted fingers. “No, you fucking loser. You might get hate, but you deserve that for those--” he glances at Louis’s trousers “-- _ things _ you wear anyway.”

 

Louis opens his mouth to argue his point (they’re shabby chic; Niall just doesn’t know anything about fashion past channeling the souls of paper boys from 1890), but Harry tugs on his hand to make him shut up. 

 

“A contract,” Harry prods, sliding into the booth and pulling Louis with him, fingers still joined together. “Like, a properly drawn out contract?”

 

Niall looks a little like he’d rather be anywhere else but here, and Louis’s only slightly offended.

 

“Yeah,” he says, relenting, “like a properly drawn out contract, only less formal. Like a ‘sign here and here if you agree to date me to fool me mum’ kind of a thing, y’know?” 

 

Louis doesn’t know, but Harry nods seriously in response. Harry always humours Niall (Louis does, too; it’s impossible to not humour Niall. Not humouring Niall is the equivalent of kicking a puppy), and it’s weirdly sweet to see. If his cold dead heart allowed him to see things in a positive way, that is.

 

“But that requires  _ effort _ ,” Louis says, voice a little whiny. He just wanted to have a fun time teasing Harry. Why does he never just get to have a fun time teasing Harry? 

 

Niall fixes Louis with a Look that he’s seen enough times in the past to make Louis clam up. It’s his ‘you got yourself into this mess because you can’t ever say no to Harry because you’re halfway in love with him’ look, or something akin to that, anyway. It has the same effect, regardless of what it means exactly. It makes Louis want to crawl into a hole and choke himself on dirt.

 

Harry turns to look at Louis, eyes glowing bright, and Louis holds back the sigh that crawls up his throat. 

 

“A contract?” He sounds so hopeful. It’s not fair on Louis’s heart or soul.

 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He puts his hand out on the table, and Niall pulls out a pen from God-knows-where.

 

He keeps repeating the words as Niall drafts out a contract onto a pile of napkins he’d nabbed from the bar at the beginning of the night. Like if he says them enough this won’t be the worst decision he’s ever made, and he can quite easily look back on it and not regret the moment he thought telling Niall would be a good idea.

 

Niall looks up halfway through, tongue poked between his teeth, eyebrows pinched in concentration, and lets out a soft noise. 

 

It’s probably a significant noise, but Louis’s too busy trying to think up ways to die before he has to pretend to be Harry’s boyfriend that he doesn’t respond to it. 

 

Harry keeps letting out these excited hums like this is the best day of his life, and Louis considers smacking his own forehead off of the sticky wood of the pub table. It’d probably break his skull, and then he wouldn’t have to lie to Harry’s mum, and it’d all go great.

 

He could reward himself with a short break to the middle of Antarctica, even. It can’t be  _ that  _ cold in spring, he’s sure of it.

 

“Here,” Niall says, shoving the napkins over and placing the pen in Harry’s hand, “you sign first.”

 

Trips to Antarctica can’t really cost that much, honestly, since it’s just a barren wasteland of snow and polar bears. He could probably afford it if he tried. He could even bury himself in snow and pretend he didn’t say yes to this whole thing just because Harry means a lot to him.

 

It’s a great plan, in his humble opinion. A standout plan. The best plan he’s ever made, even. 

 

Harry’s elbow nudges him as he signs his name in a messy scrawl, and then he passes the pen, and it’s too late.

 

Niall’s even gone to the liberty of doodling the border at the edge of the napkin, Louis realises a little wildly. As if this cements his fate. He can’t believe he’s about to piss himself over a badly drawn napkin border. This is what his life has come to.

 

_ This contract certifies that: _

_ Louis Tomlinson _ _ , and  _ _ Harry Styles _

_ Were united in a false imitation of a relationship, and that _

_ For the following month, and as long as it is needed after, _

_ Both  _ _ Louis Tomlinson _ _ and  _ _ Harry Styles _

_ Will do all that is necessary to show that they are _ _  
_ _ Deeply and wholly committed to each other. _

 

_ This poorly made decision has been overseen by  _ _ Niall Horan _ _ , _

_ Who, for the record, does not condone any of this,  _

_ But wishes both assholes well regardless. _

 

Louis signs off on the two places he’s meant to, and then considers burning the napkin that’s just sealed his fate for the upcoming month. 

 

He takes a second before he looks at Harry, praying that this hasn’t made it weird between them, but Harry’s just grinning, all teeth and dimples. 

 

“We’re officially a couple,” he giggles, poking at Louis’s nose.

 

“A  _ fake  _ couple,” Louis corrects, grabbing at his hand and rolling his eyes, “the fakest couple that’s ever lived.”

 

Niall coughs, “yeah, like you ever needed a contract to solidify that.”

 

Louis doesn’t even punch him on the jaw.

 

++

 

Sharing a flat with Harry is a little like sharing a flat with a stray cat, Louis’s found.

 

He sort of wanders in and out whenever he pleases, spends hours rolling around on the floor and napping, and then whines endlessly for food. He also never lets Louis lie in when he’s home, because they ‘have to make the most of their time together’. 

 

They’ve been living together since Louis was eighteen and Harry was sixteen and just starting out in his singing career, and Harry’s never moved out because it’s easier this way. He could buy ten inner city houses and not even dent his funds, probably, but Harry just says there’s no point because everywhere’s lonely without him. That buying a new flat would be pointless because he likes coming home to Louis.

 

It’s dramatic, but Louis doesn’t disagree. (His heart doesn’t either, but he tells it to fuck off and leave him alone anyway.)

 

Harry’s out of the country more often than he’s in it, but he’s got a solid three month break before tour starts again, so he’s spending most of his time with his legs sprawled over Louis’s bed. It’s sort of, unofficially, their talking space. The place that’s just for them, when the rest of the world is trying to force itself into Harry’s life 24/7.

 

“I’m too ace for this,” Louis mutters, poking at Harry’s bare thigh. 

 

Harry just gives him a wolfish grin and sticks his big toe up Louis’s nose.

 

“You love it,” Harry responds, “you love me waking you up.”

 

It’s a lie. Louis has never hated anything in his life more than he hates Harry Styles, because Harry is evil. And his toes are freaky and weird, and there’s nothing cute about him. At all. Because Harry is made out of hellfire and bad things.

 

“No,” Louis responds, voice still scratchy, and Harry just wriggles his eyebrows at him. It would seem like a come on, if it was anyone else. As it is, though, Harry’s got his toenails painted with the ace flag colours, and probably wouldn’t know what a come on was if it smacked him in the face.

 

Louis tangles their fingers together and presses a gentle kiss to the curve of Harry’s knuckle, even though he doesn’t deserve it.

 

They’ve always been like this, though; sleepy mornings spent curled up around each other, mumbling about things that don’t matter and things that matter more than they have words for. Easy and safe, the way their friendship had started out as, the way it still is because that shouldn’t ever stop being a constant. Even if it means something different to Louis now than it had a few years ago, and it doesn’t to Harry.

 

Zayn says it’s the asexual version of a mating dance. Louis tells him to fuck off.

 

Louis lolls his head to the side to look at the bedside cabinet, locking eyes with the napkin that has his fate sealed in the fibres, and considers going back to sleep.

 

It’s been a week since Niall had made it and Louis and Harry had signed it, and today’s the day when Harry has to officially tell his mum someone’s coming with him to the family deal-type-thing. (Louis’s not sure on the details, really; he’d stopped listening when the alarm bells had started ringing in his ears.)

 

“Gotta tell Mum your dietary requirements ‘nd everything,” Harry grumbles, following Louis’s eyeline. 

 

Louis wrinkles his nose. Anne’s known his dietary requirements since Louis was barely ten years old and still crossed his knife and fork over each other after eating. She’ll know the second Harry tells her that it’s Louis, which is something Harry was planning on keeping secret until Louis actually arrived with him.

 

Louis wonders if Harry realises just how shitty he really is at making plans, and decides that’s probably a no. 

 

Still. He’s not going to tell him that, because that’d imply that he’s been thinking about it a lot for the last week, which he hasn’t. Because it isn’t a big deal to him. Not even a little bit.

 

(Well. Maybe a tiny bit, but he’s not telling  _ Harry  _ that.)

 

“Don’t forget about the-”

 

Harry cuts him off with a look, “allergic reaction to unripe fruit? I know.”

 

Louis sniffs haughtily, tracing the lines of Harry’s palm with his fingertip. He wonders how far along the life-line Louis travels with him, and hopes it’s forever.

 

“Don’t need to get all whiny about it, loser.” Louis pretends his chest doesn’t get warm at the fact Harry knows these things about him. It’s natural. They’ve been friends for fifteen years, of  _ course  _ he knows Louis’s dietary requirements. Just like he knows how Harry starts getting sick after too much dairy.

 

It doesn’t mean anything, apart from the fact that it does to Louis.

 

“But she’s gonna get all inquisitive, and she’s probably going to guess it’s you,” Harry says, and Louis thinks  _ maybe he’s not that bad at realising things _ . Then he remembers Harry hasn’t noticed the way Louis looks at him, like Harry’s hung the moon and stars, and thinks  _ or maybe not. _

 

“Yeah, I was thinking about that.” 

 

Harry cocks an eyebrow, but it’s kind of less effective, considering how he’s still got that sleepy haze around him. 

 

“And you just let me panic about it alone at three am last night?”

 

Louis grins. “You panicking about shit you should have thought about earlier gets me going. It’s my deepest, darkest fantasy.”

 

Harry grumbles at him, nips at Louis’s wrist with his weird chiclet teeth, and they both lie in comfortable silence for a couple minutes.

 

Really, this whole situation could be worse. Pretending to be Harry’s boyfriend isn’t the worst thing in the world, especially when he knows he’s going to get free food out of it. The deal’s alright enough as is, because spending time with Harry’s family is second only to spending time with his own, but. The food definitely sweetens the deal.

 

And besides, spending a maximum amount of time with Harry is his favourite activity. Harry’s spent the last five months on tour, cramming in Skype sessions between interviews and gigs, and actually having him home again is (somehow) even better than he remembers. Harry might have the whole world under his thumb, charmed by the long hair and shitty shoes and posh designer brand deals, but Louis still comes first. Still the first to get to cuddle him when he gets home, even before Anne (not that Louis would brag about that to her face; she’d probably snap his neck), still the first to love him.

 

There are far worse things in the world than pretending to be Harry Styles’s partner for a month or more.

 

++

 

Louis lied. There is nothing worse than pretending to be Harry’s boyfriend.

 

He’s listening to Anne and Harry Skype from behind the sofa, his own laptop balanced on his knees, and he’s pretty sure he’s having an anxiety attack. 

 

Somehow, with how much he’s been thinking about it the past week, he hadn’t taken into consideration that Anne was going to expect them to be together for a while after. And that Anne loves sharing things about Harry on social media.

 

That, inevitably, he’s going to have to lie to  _ millions of people  _ about being Harry’s boyfriend.

 

This is probably what dying feels like.

 

“...he’s nice, mum, you’ll love him,” Harry’s saying, and Anne lets out a noise like if Harry was with her she’d smack him ‘round the head. 

 

“I bloody better, considering the fact we’re three weeks away from the biggest day in all of history-” Anne’s always been a bit dramatic, it’s probably where Harry gets it from “-and you’re only just telling me you’re dating someone. Don’t I even get a name? A story about how you met?”

 

Anne’s the nicest woman in the world, but she’s a mum. Which, ultimately, means that she’s also half-demon. It’s no wonder she and Jay are--

 

_ Fuck _ .

 

She and Jay are friends. Because he and Harry have been friends for ten years, and she and Jay adore each other. She and Jay are  _ best friends.  _ They’ve been best friends for  _ ten years.  _

 

If there’s one thing Louis knows, it’s that his mum is going to hang him if Anne suddenly says that they’re together before she knew for herself. Or, at least, that she would’ve expected to be told at the same time as Anne. 

 

Lying to the whole world doesn’t seem like a big deal any more, because he’s going to have to lie to his own mum. 

 

His own mum who, for the last six years, has been telling him time and time again that he needs to suck up his pride and just ask Harry on a date. She’s going to  _ murder  _ him.

 

Louis’s not even going to reach thirty before his own mum kills him stone dead.

 

Anne and Harry’s conversation is like a buzzing in his ears, audible but practically mute compared to the screaming in his head.

 

He needs to tell his mum, and then she’s going to tell Anne, and then Anne’s going to tell the  _ whole fucking world  _ before he and Harry even get the opportunity to fake being boyfriends for a weekend. And then he and Harry are going to have to tell everyone it was a prank, or fake a breakup, and then. 

 

And then he and Harry are probably going to have to go live somewhere else, because  _ who in the fuck  _ lives with their ex? And he’s going to never talk to Harry again, and he’s going to grow old and lonely with only Zayn at his side, telling him he’s a fucking loser.

 

Which he deserves, but still. He’s panicking.

 

His breath is coming in great, heaving gulps, hands trembling where they’re clenched against his laptop’s keyboard, and he can’t breathe.

 

This is what dying is. This is everything everyone has ever described as dying. He’s dying before he even gets to fake date Harry. He’s the worst, least supportive friend in the world, Jesus Christ.

 

Faintly, he hears Harry say something hurriedly to Anne, but it barely processes, mind too busy chanting  _ shitty friend bad bad bad friend bad person liar liar never going to get-. _

 

Hands come to settle against his shoulders, and Louis takes a glance through tears to see Harry’s worried expression as he sits down next to him.

 

His breath is still going too fast, and Harry’s saying something but it feels like it’s coming from underwater, fuzzy around the edges.

 

“...Louis,” and that’s what snaps him out of it, the way Harry suddenly leans really close to him, chest to chest, arms curled around his shoulders.

 

Anxiety attacks aren’t always fixed by cuddles, but it helps when it’s Harry.

 

Harry leads him through the motions, telling him to just breathe as steadily as he can, not telling him to go by any certain numbers because he knows it makes it worse. Just tells him to breathe out longer than he did in, fingers pressed between Louis’s shoulder blades as a focus point.

 

Slowly, slowly, it’s like coming to again, panic just burning low in his tummy instead of being an all-consuming force, and he lets out a choked whimper as he buries his head in Harry’s shoulder.

 

“It’s alright, nerd, you’re gonna be fine,” Harry murmurs, and Louis appreciates the way Harry never tries to baby him when he gets like this.

 

He’s gotten anxiety attacks on and off since he was fifteen, and Harry’s never once treated him like he was weak because of it. (“Because it  _ isn’t, _ ” a sixteen year old Harry had told him once, “it’s just something that happens, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”) Just researched and looked what worked best with Louis, and not anyone else, because it was a personal thing. Made sure to treat Louis like it wasn’t the end of the world, because that only made it worse. 

 

There’s a lump in Louis’s throat from tears he’s holding back, and he takes a moment to let a few fall before he takes three, deep steadying breaths.

 

“What was that about?” Harry asks, and his arms don’t leave Louis’s shoulders, even as Louis moves back a little. It’s nice, it’s comforting. Louis likes it. “If you want to tell me.”

 

Louis nods, and Harry waits patiently, fingers tapping against Louis’s shoulders.

 

“Just, lying, like,” saying it makes his brain want to start yelling again, but Harry just smiles at him.

 

“Lying to everyone, about how we’re together. And. People are going to think we are, and then. Breakup.”

 

Harry understands, because Harry’s well-versed in Louis’s choppy way of speaking, and he just blinks, slow, not like he thinks Louis’s an ingrate, but like he’s worth waiting for.

 

“You can tell your mum and tell her not to tell mine, you know,” Harry says, and Louis doesn’t know how he always  _ knows _ , but he’s so grateful for it. “And my mum might post something online, you know how she is, but we don’t have to act any way you’re uncomfortable with. People think we’re together now anyways, like.”

 

Louis lets out a small laugh, choked and scratchy from tears, but the last bit of worry fades from Harry’s eyes.

 

“Yeah, I, just.” He waves his hand, and Harry nods.

 

“You know that it’s just the anxiety talking, spiralling isn’t gonna help. I’m not leaving you, and I know that’s what you’re thinking, but we’re friends no matter what happens. If you need to not do this, I can just say you can’t come, and that’s fine. But no matter what, I love you and want the best for you, okay?”

 

That, more than anything, is what makes Louis decide he’s going to go through with it.

 

There’s tears still tracking down his cheeks, breath still hitching every other heartbeat, but he just mutters, “I’m doing it.” And Harry just fistbumps him before pulling him to his feet.

 

They spend an hour eating ice cream out of the tub, and Louis doesn’t really know how he got so lucky.

 

++

 

Louis wakes up to a text at seven in the morning, which is unusual, because all his friends are dead to the world before ten. He chose them exactly for that reason.

 

He blinks at the screen, eyes still hazy with sleep a he types a response.

 

ZAYN: u do kno niall told me abt that whole thing right

 

LOUIS: idk what ur talkin abt bro

 

ZAYN: u kno fake dating ahrrys a bad idea right

 

LOUIS: ive made worse decisions

 

ZAYN: u brekign ur leg doesnt count

 

LOUIS: nice 2 know u care abt my safety

 

LOUIS: & anyways i know, but its harry

 

ZAYN: its always harry

 

Louis switches off his phone, tucks it under his pillow, and goes back to sleep. If he dreams about getting to kiss Harry while Zayn mocks them, that’s for his subconscious to know.

 

++

 

Louis wakes up again at half eleven, nose pressed to Harry’s, and it’s only the years of experience that stop him from headbutting Harry dead.

 

“You’ve got morning breath,” Harry says, before Louis’s even opened his mouth, because Harry is an awful person.

 

“And I’ve got insecurities,” Louis grumbles, and Harry just rolls his eyes and tangles their legs together in response. 

 

Louis presses his cold toes between Harry’s calves, and it’s a testament to how long they’ve been friends that Harry doesn’t even flinch. He clamps his legs tighter so that Louis’s feet get warmer faster, and Louis just presses a kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose in thanks.

 

“Liam called talking about how we need to stop getting into shit like this,” Harry says, and his breath smells like cinnamon rolls. He went to the bakery before Louis even woke up, and this. This is why Louis deals with him.

 

“Liam almost crashed his car trying to negotiate a deal about an antique,” Louis says, and Harry snorts a laugh into Louis’s neck.

 

Liam has a thing for antiques that no one around them has ever really fully understood. Louis supports it, because he loves his friends, but even he doesn’t get the whole ‘going to antique shops every Saturday for new finds’ thing. He’s almost as passionate about it as he is producing, which is saying a lot.

 

“Leave him alone, he was happy for months after,” Harry mumbles, and Louis feels a jolt in his stomach at the way Harry’s mouth moves against his ear. 

 

“He could have been  _ dead  _ for months after.”

 

Harry flicks him in the nipple, and Louis lets out a wounded grunt.

 

“You bought cinnamon rolls?” Louis voices after a second of silence, because he’s nice and forgive Harry when he’s an arsehole. He’s such a good friend.

 

“I did.” Harry narrows his eyes. “You can have  _ one _ .”

 

That sounds like a challenge, more than anything, and Louis quickly removes his legs from between Harry’s legs before bolting out of bed.

 

He manages to get to the kitchen without knocking himself out on the walls of the hallway, and Harry lets out a shout of pure rage behind him. (Or, like, impure rage. Louis doesn’t really care.)

He stuffs a whole roll into his mouth, cheeks bulging, when Harry finally slides into the kitchen, eyes narrowed.

 

“I hope you choke on that,” Harry grunts, and snatches the bag right from Louis’s arms.

 

It’s not really fair, since Louis’s currently occupied with trying to swallow a cinnamon roll whole, and his arms are weak from sleep, but Harry doesn’t give a shit about fair. Harry’s not really good at the whole sharing thing, which is. One of his (many) flaws. But at least he knows what type of food Louis likes.

 

Louis swallows with a gulp, and sticks out his tongue at him.

 

“You never chew your food,” Harry grunts. “You’re like a duck.”

 

Louis knows, with one hundred percent certainty, that Harry only knows that because of Wikipedia. 

 

Harry packs the bag of pastries into the microwave, and even though he wants to, Louis won’t steal any. He truly deserves a medal for the things he does for Harry. He’s a saint.

 

Louis follows him around the kitchen for a while, just watching him clear things up that he’d left out when Louis had been sleeping, and Harry hums to himself as he does it.

 

Harry never really properly sings unless he’s in the shower, even though Louis’s been to ninety thousand of his concerts and was the one who convinced him to go on X Factor at age sixteen. He says it makes him more nervous, when it’s just them and there’s no backup noise, but. Louis still wishes he could hear it.

 

“Are you writing anything at the moment?” he asks, pushing past Harry to glance into the fridge.

 

They’re almost out of everything, because neither of them really like going shopping that much, and Louis always forgets about online shopping deliveries.

 

Harry wrinkles his nose. “I’m trying? Some song about finding yourself and coming home to someone.”

 

Louis hums a tune under his breath in response, and Harry grins, big and wide.

 

“That’s about what I’ve got, yeah,” he rubs at his nose, “it’s meant to be this big, important self discovery song, but I don’t know how to put it together properly.”

 

“If it’s about coming home to someone, you could make it about someone feeling at home with themselves, or something.” He shrugs his shoulders, and Harry’s eyes widen imperceptibly before he puts everything he was holding back onto the counter.

 

“I’ve got to go, for a little bit, I’ll be back, alright?”

 

He yells from between his legs, hands fiddling with the straps on his boots, and Louis grins into his hand.

 

“Go ahead, popstar. Leave me all on my lonesome, hopelessly bereft.”

 

Harry just flips him off over his shoulder and slams the door closed behind him.

 

++

 

Liam comes over to the flat before Harry gets home, takeout boxes balanced against his hip.

 

Louis makes grabby hands until Liam gives over the box of chow mein he’d been aiming for, and chews without talking.

 

It’s easy with Liam, because Liam’s a provider. He brings food when he comes around and usually comes just to sit and watch shitty reality programmes and talk about different music he’s producing. It makes Louis feel better about his life as a freelance web developer (well, more like freelance-anything that means he doesn’t have to go out five days a week), to know that Liam doesn’t ever have a grand plan for himself.

 

“Zayn told me about your shitty plan,” Liam says, cracking open a pot of sweet and sour sauce. “Said that you refused to admit it was bad.”

 

“It’s Harry,” Louis responds, spilling soy sauce down his chin, “‘s never bad when ‘s Harry.”

 

Liam narrows his eyes at him, like he’s trying to be stern. It doesn’t really work, considering the whole puppy-dog thing he has going for him. It’s more endearing than anything else.

 

“Harry makes some of the worst decisions known to man.” Liam’s voice brooks no argument, and Louis can’t help but give him that.

 

That’s the reason they’re in this mess anyway.

 

“I mean, yeah, but give the kid a break. He’s just got back off tour, like--”

 

“You have never given Harry a break in his whole life, you’re the world’s biggest hypocrite.” Liam waves his fork at him, and Louis doesn’t even know when he got  _ that _ . 

 

At that moment, the door cracks open, and Harry stumbles in, Zayn and Niall in tow.

 

Louis doesn’t really know how they do this, this whole ‘accidentally get together in a group’ thing. It’s happened for years, now, like they’re just pulled together like magnets. They never bother planning proper nights together, because more often than not it happens once a week anyway.

 

Harry comes to squeeze between Louis and Liam, and Zayn and Niall sit at their feet, and it’s a little like being a family. It always has been the five of them against the world, even when Liam arched off into being a Bigshot Producer and was away most of the time, and Harry was an international popstar. They’re home to each other, and it’s never weird between them.

 

Until Zayn starts speaking.

 

“You and Harry are fuckin’ gay arse nerds, first of all-”

 

“Excuse you,” Harry cuts off, eyebrow raised like he’s not joking, “I’ll have you know I’m aceflux and proud, actually, and I don’t appreciate your brush off.”

 

“He’s also pan,” Niall cuts in, and Harry fistbumps him. 

 

Zayn rolls his eyes, but there’s a grin quirking the side of his mouth. He likes when the rest of them talk about their sexualities, Louis knows; mostly because it took him ages to come out and feel comfortable about it for himself (Zayn had told him, one night, curled up side by side in Harry’s dad’s bungalow, that having the openness of the discussion was nice, and that was that. Talking about it became a routine thing, like a tradition. It’d helped them all, Louis thinks, actually having people who relate to it. It’s another reason Louis loves them all so much, not that he’d tell them that). 

 

“Either way, you’re awful,” Zayn replies, biting into a spring roll.

 

“I wrote them a contract,” Niall voices, flicking through tv channels. 

 

Niall is the destroyer of all good things. 

 

Zayn and Liam both turn to look at each other like they’ve never heard anything more absurd than that. It’s honestly offensive, because Louis’s done worse shit than this. He really, honestly has, and the fact that Zayn and Liam are doubting his ability to make bad decisions is needlessly cruel. Heartless, even.

 

Harry grins into Louis’s shoulder like he knows what he’s thinking, and it’s only the fury at Zayn wrinkling his nose that keeps him from responding in kind.

 

“A contract? You enabled them? You really thought that was a good idea?” Liam looks like he wants to brain himself on the nearest hard surface.

 

“Liam, mate, I’m not bein’ funny or nothin’, but they were gonna do it anyway, so they might as well ‘ave a contract so they stick in their duties.” 

 

Niall crushes a prawn cracker against Liam’s forehead, and then it’s easy again.

 

Louis steadily ignores the way Zayn’s looking at him, and instead throws a noodle into Niall’s wilting quiff.

 

The resulting food fight is worth the mess, because at least it makes Zayn stop looking at him.

 

++

 

Louis doesn’t get to ask about the reason Harry’d disappeared until they’re curled up in bed together the next morning; Louis’s trying to beat his high score on Crossy Road while Harry texts Zayn with his too-big thumbs (Harry still can’t type faster than a grandma, and Louis’s endeared by it. It’s worrying, to say the least).

 

“So, you disappeared yesterday,” Louis says, tapping too fast and sending the chicken into a car. “What crimes did you commit?”

 

Harry nudges him with his creepy toes. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

 

He flips over onto his stomach and rests his chin on Louis’s shoulder, spends a minute watching Louis dodging cars and hissing when he doesn’t. It’s nice. Harry’s really warm, but it’s nice.

 

“I went to the studio. Fucked around a bit, wrote a bit of a song, all thanks to you.” Harry gives him a cheesy grin, and the chicken goes careening into a lorry.

 

“You’re disgusting,” he mutters, “horrifying and gross.”

 

“You love me,” Harry says, all teeth and dimples and fluffy hair. Louis wonders what he’d do if he just told him right then and there that he  _ really fucking does.  _ Nothing good, probably.

 

“I’m going to leak pictures of you getting drunk and destroy your image.” His voice stays steady, which is actually pretty impressive. He spends most mornings trying to ignore the irritating way his voice cracks after disuse.

 

Harry pouts, lip poked between his teeth like a fucking three year old, and Louis  _ really loves him.  _ He doesn’t know what shitty thing he did in a past life to deserve all these feelings, but he wants them gone. 

 

Harry’s phone buzzes with a text where it’s settled on Louis’s stomach, and he reaches for it. The warm graze of his fingers is. Just this side of too much.

 

“It’s Mum,” he says, a wrinkle between his eyebrows. “She’s talking about how the dietary requirements are familiar to yours.”

 

“Guess that means I have to tell my mum now, huh?” He’d been planning on doing it earlier, but. He’d kept forgetting; too engrossed with binge watching New Girl and catching up on work he’s been missing since Harry’s come home. (Not that it matters, since technically he’s his own boss, but he likes keeping ahead of it. He likes  _ web design,  _ which is exactly why he’s a web designer. It’s not his fault Harry keeps getting in the way of that.)

 

“Yeah, probably,” Harry frowns, “you’re sure you don’t want to call this whole thing off and I act like I got dumped?”

 

It’s selfish, really, how Louis want nothing less than to call this thing off. Even if it makes him a little bit anxious, the idea of getting to pretend to have something he’s wanted for years is. Too enchanting for him to give up on before he’s even had it. He’s going to Hell, but he can deal with that.

 

“I would rather spend eight hours watching Liam polish his antiques,” he says, and Harry nudges Louis’s nose with his mouth before rolling onto his back.

 

Louis clicks out of Crossy Road and opens up the messages to his mum, before typing one out to her. He deletes it, rewrites it, and then deletes that one as well. 

 

It’s like, how are you meant to lie to your mum about dating the person you’ve had a crush on since you were sixteen? (Answer: you’re not, because you’re not meant to lie to your mum past the age of twenty. It’s practically a law.)

 

He takes his time rewriting it for a third time, and sends it before he can lose his nerve.

 

LOUIS: hey mum so i have something to tell you !! me and harry have been dating for a little while now and we wanted you to know, but pls don’t tell anne just yet ?? we want it to be a surprise for her 

 

It takes all of five minutes before his mum’s sending several replies in quick succession:

 

MUM: LOU WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME SOONER

 

MUM: Also that is deceit young man you know better than that

 

MUM: But I won’t tell her just yet I suppose it’s your surprise

 

MUM: but I’m so happy for you !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

MUM: and you need to come up soon so we can talk about it properly 

 

Louis breathes deep when the replies finish coming in, and he types out a quick ‘it’s great i know im so happy with him ily i gotta go now got things 2 do bye !!’ before turning off his phone. He feels only slightly like an angst-ridden teenager.

 

A text pings through on Harry’s phone, and he turns to give Louis a wicked grin.

 

“Your mum says she’s excited for us,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows, “and that it was a long time coming.”

 

Honestly, Louis’s just glad she didn’t say anything about how Louis’s been pining pathetically for over five years now. That would have been mortifying. He would have had to change his name and move to a different country, probably.

 

“Soulmates,” Louis agrees, and Harry just snorts.

 

It’s sort of an inside joke they have. The whole concept of soulmates being purely romantic isn’t anything they’ve ever understood, and being friends with Zayn and Niall (otherwise known as the most aromantic people on God’s green earth) has only helped that along. People call him and Harry soulmates constantly, like they have to be dating for that to be true, and. It just isn’t. Soulmates don’t have to be sexual or romantic to be important.

 

Mostly, Louis jokes about it because it makes Harry happy. And, like, anything that makes Harry happy can’t be a good thing.

 

Harry just tugs on his hand until he stands up, and Louis pretends the warmth doesn’t make his chest tighten.

 

++

 

“We need to set guidelines,” Harry says, fingers crossed over each other. 

 

They’re in a tiny café they’ve been going to for years; one of the only places that nobody ever cares when Harry turns up. It’s nice because it’s homely, and also because they know Louis’s order without even having to ask him.

 

“For what?” He knows what Harry’s talking about, but he likes stalling on things. It’s a talent.

 

Harry takes a bite of his sandwich before continuing, because he knows what Louis’s doing and he likes trying to beat him at his own game. 

 

“The fake dating thing.” He keeps his voice low. Louis’s, like, eighty percent sure it’s because he likes pretending to be a spy.

 

“Oh, that.” 

 

Harry gives him a blank stare. “Yeah, that. We need to work out what the boundaries are. Like, if we’re going to use gross nicknames for each other, if we’re going to hold hands, if we’re going to kiss--”

 

Louis chokes on a little bit of his chicken wrap and lets out a sharp cough in response.  _ Kissing.  _ He hadn’t really let himself think about any of that, avoiding it in earnest as if it wasn’t ever going to be something he’d need to consider. Thinking about kissing Harry’s never really gotten him in good places before.

 

“We don’t have to,” Harry rushes on, like he’s scared he’s made Louis ready to never speak to him again, “if that’s too much, we don’t have to! I was just, like, suggesting, for. Boundaries. Right.”

 

Louis nods, feeling a little bit faint. Harry’s setting boundaries with him so that they don’t feel uncomfortable. Which means, really, that Harry wouldn’t be  _ opposed  _ to them kissing. Or maybe he’s projecting. Either way, the thought makes his head spin a little bit. 

 

“Um,” _ how does he say this without sounding like he really wants to snog Harry? _ “Kissing’s probably expected, right? New couple, best friends for years, PDA’s probably something you expect, isn’t it?”

 

Truth be told, Louis doesn’t have much expertise on the matter, considering the whole ace thing. Also, the whole ‘in love with his best mate since he was fifteen’ thing. That’s never helped much to encourage his love life.

 

Harry’s cheeks are a little pink, fingers twitching around his mug like he wants to go scroll through Wikipedia, and Louis’s just glad he’s not alone in being nervous about this. They’re in this together, even if it’s a little terrifying.

 

“Right, yeah.” Harry coughs, and they’re quiet for a little bit.

 

It’s not awkward, because it never is between the two of them, but it’s not their comfortable silences. Not like the silences that happen when Harry comes into Louis’s room at ten in the morning to wake him up and hang out before they have to go do Adult Things. He thinks, though, that it might be weirder if it were comfortable.

 

That if it were comfortable it’d mean something different, and. Well. As much as he wants that, it’s not the truth, so.

 

“I’m fine with it if you are,” Louis offers, and he’s proud of himself for keeping the shake out of his voice, “‘s long as it’s consensual, I’m good with it.”

 

“Yeah, obviously. I’ll ask before I do it and everything, I’m not eight, Lou.” Harry rolls his eyes, and then suddenly his face turns so pink Louis’s half sure he’s about to burst into flames.

 

Now, Louis’s a good friend; a great one, even, but. Not even a friend as good as him can just let that lie.

 

“‘Sup with the blush, Styles? Nervous about kissing your best mate?” His voice goes all high and innocent, and Harry scowls. It looks really fucking funny paired with the blush that’s reaching to his ears.

 

“No, I was just… fuck. I was thinking about how it’s going to look weird if we look like it’s our first time kissing.” 

 

This, this moment right here, should be the moment that he finally drops out of this whole thing. Because, really, he shouldn’t be thinking about how it’s not going to be the first time they’ve kissed. He’s not even sure if Harry remembers it.

 

Sixteen year old Harry used to get really drunk really fast, which is a beginning to a story Louis loves telling. But, like. Especially this one, because it’s probably the best memory he has, fuzzy ‘round the edges as it is.

 

So, anyway, sixteen year old Harry was a lightweight, only had to have half a can of shitty lager before he was giggling into Louis’s neck, and Louis wasn’t much better. 

 

Thing is, Harry’d spent the last week locked in his room after a breakup, mostly eating half-melted chocolate bars and crisps, a bowl of cereal if his mum made him. So Louis’d decided getting him a little tipsy was a good idea (even if he wouldn’t now, because Harry was practically an  _ infant _ , what the fuck was he  _ doing _ ), and Harry had drunk a can of Heineken and started cuddling up to him.

 

If Louis hadn’t already been tipsy himself, he wouldn’t have let it happen, because drunk people can’t consent properly no matter how much they say they can. (And, like, they  _ would _ say that.They’re  _ drunk _ .) 

 

But Harry had crawled into his lap, and snogged him, fingers barely settled on Louis’s chest as he’d leaned in with a mouth that tasted like shitty beer, and Louis had kissed him back. It wasn’t a long kiss, not really, because Harry had broken off giggling after, but. 

 

It’s enough for Louis to remember, and it’s enough for any kiss they have from this point on to not be their first.

 

He doesn’t say that, though, just quirks a smirk and wraps his hand around his milkshake.

 

“You’re talking about kissing practise,” he says, and Harry looks like he wants to die a little bit. He’s a loser. “Like, you and me, seeing if we can kiss right. That’s what you’re suggesting.”

 

Harry, because he’s a strong person, just locks him with a steely glare and responds, “that’s right.”

 

Louis has to give him that. At least he’s a strong-willed loser.

 

“You’re not scared of kissing me, surely, Styles?” He wiggles an eyebrow at him suggestively to mask the fact that his stomach won’t stop clenching. If there’s one thing he wants to do before he dies, it’s kiss Harry consensually and softly.

 

Harry gives him a look like he knows what he’s doing, but he  _ can’t _ , because Louis’s never told him. (Doesn’t know if he ever will, because he might joke about hating him, but Harry’s the best thing he’s ever had, and he never wants to lose him. But not, like, in a sappy way or anything.)

 

“Like you’d be a good kisser anyway,” Harry snipes, and Louis narrows his eyes. He’s a great kisser. He’s practically a pro at kissing.

 

“I’m going to tweet all of our conversations we’ve ever had,” Louis responds, and Harry locks his fingers over one another, grin quirking at his mouth. 

 

He knows Louis would do it (has done it, actually, because Harry admitting he vomited in Louis’s underwear drawer because he couldn’t make it to the bathroom was worthy of being called out for), but he’s not worried. If it were anyone else, he might be, but they trust each other.

 

They’re kind of gross.

 

“Anyway,” Harry continues, and the blush is back, which Louis counts as a victory, “the whole kissing thing. We need to make a plan for it.”

 

Of course Harry’s the type of person to make a fucking rotor for practising how to kiss. He’s a dweeb.

 

Louis just leers at him in response, “you don’t want to be ambushed?”

 

“Ambush kisses understate the importance of consent in all forms,” Harry recites, like he’s reading off of a teleprompter. He wiggles his finger at him, “and implies that once consent is given once, it’s given all times after. Which isn’t the truth. Consent has to be given each and every time--”

 

Louis knows how long this speech is (actually was the one who started ranting about it, age eighteen and full of righteous anger), so he takes a bite out of his wrap and waits. Wonders if Harry would be offended if he asked for another while he wasn’t finished speaking.

 

“I’d consensually kiss you anyway,” he interrupts, and Harry closes his mouth, ears slightly pink. It’s not like it’s the first time Louis’s ever teased him about the idea of kissing; growing up being out to each other meant they trusted each other more than anyone else. It’s funny how flustered Harry still gets about it.

 

Not that Louis can really talk, considering the fact he still thinks about their drunken snog twice a week. He’s a little bit pathetic, but it’s okay because Harry doesn’t know that.

 

“That’s really bi, nerd.”

 

Louis flicks a bit of half-chewed wrap at him, and Harry just ducks out of the way without blinking. It’s normal, even if the feeling in Louis’s stomach is something akin to butterflies.

 

++

 

“Hey, Zayn, pass me that.” Louis’s got one foot on their kitchen counter, back curved as he tries to press tiny patterns of colour onto his toenails.

 

Zayn rolls his eyes, but shoves the little bottle of topcoat towards Louis with the hand that he’s painting his own nails with.

 

They do this a lot, really; sitting in relative quiet while painting their nails, either as a way to calm down or a way to just feel more connected, and it’s nice. Louis always loves the way his nails look pretty in a way they don’t when they’re not painted, and Zayn likes the fact that it makes him feel more androgynous.

 

(“Like agender, but to the extreme, you know?” Zayn’d said once, dotting tool clamped between his teeth.

 

“I don’t really think anything about you is extreme, if I’m being honest, Zee.”

 

“This is transphobia and I won’t stand for it,” Zayn said, and Louis had shoved his head right into the covers of his bed, cackling when a smear of pastel purple rubbed off on his cheek.)

 

“You still haven’t second guessed yourself fake dating Harry?” Zayn asks, and Louis narrows his eyes as he slowly applies a top coat to his smallest toenail.

 

“Absolutely not,” Louis responds, “because I’ve never made a bad decision in my life.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Zayn snorts, and Louis really hopes he smudges the thumb nail he’s been working on for the last ten minutes, “remember that time you tried to draw the bi flag on your nails?”

 

Louis sniffs. That hadn’t been a complete disaster, no matter what Zayn says. Just because he’d had an allergic reaction to the new formula means absolutely nothing in the long run. And he hadn’t fucking cried, no matter what Zayn says. What does Zayn know anyway. Nothing, that’s what.

 

“Biphobia isn’t allowed in my home, actually,” Louis says, and Zayn rolls his eyes and takes the nail brush from his hands and gestures for him to turn around.

 

Louis agrees only because Zayn’s creepily good at staying in the lines and Louis’s never been fantastic at it, even after years of practise.

 

Zayn settles Louis’s foot in his lap, and slowly begins to continue where Louis missed spots.

 

“You can’t be smug about this all the time,” Louis whines, and Zayn sighs, like he’s not actually endeared. Which is a lie, because Louis has actual proof Zayn loves him.

 

(Screenshots are a beautiful and good thing, and he will never take them for granted.)

 

“I’ll be smug for the rest of my life, because I’ve never been wrong,” Zayn responds, narrowing his eyes at the top coat. Louis assumes that he’s happy with the result, because he gestures for Louis’s other foot.

 

“But you never answered,” Zayn says, and there’s a look in his eye that’s almost, almost worry, “you’re not regretting pretending to be Harry’s boyfriend?”

 

Louis sighs, blows a bit of his fringe off his cheek, considers.

 

He jokes, but he honestly  _ doesn’t  _ regret it. Harry needing his help has always been a pretty much surefire way of him doing anything, which Zayn says is unhealthy but Louis insists is friendship.

 

“I don’t think so,” Louis says, and Zayn eyes him before slowly copying Louis’s patterns from his other foot, “like? It doesn’t even seem unnatural, you know? Like it’s not even that different from what we’ve always been like.”

 

Louis doesn’t mention the kissing, because. Well, Zayn worries easy, and Louis’s never liked making him fret over nothing. He’s such a good friend.

 

“Promise me if you start second guessing you’ll actually look after yourself first?” Zayn asks, and Louis’d crack a joke, but there’s a genuine look of concern in his eyes, and that’d just be mean.

 

“Of course, arsehole,” Louis answers, and then more quietly, “love you.”

 

Zayn just smiles sweetly and continues painting.

 

++

 

Louis’s just constructing a tweet when Harry sits in front of him, determined glint in his eye.

Nothing good can come from it, Louis knows, so he just finishes typing ( _ ‘shitty representation =/= representation, not that any1 asked’ _ ) before putting his phone down. He has the whole ‘humouring Harry’ thing down to an art.

 

“What do  _ you _ want?” He shoves his toes against Harry’s collarbone, grinning when Harry just flicks them with his knuckle.

 

“To kiss you,” Harry says, and Louis’s chest seizes just a little. Only a tiny bit. (Very not much.) “If you’re comfortable with that right now?”

 

Louis, because he’s the King of Staying Calm (“That’s a lie,” Zayn’s voice tells him in his head, “you’re the least calm person that’s ever lived”), just shrugs.

 

“Sure, loser, whatever you want.” He hopes Harry doesn’t hear the underlying meaning in that;  _ anything you want, because I’m a little in love with you. _

 

“Really? You’re sure?” Harry looks slightly nervous, a worried tilt to his mouth. If Louis didn’t know him so well, he’d just say that it was a bad idea and Harry didn’t have to.

 

But Harry reacting like this just means he thinks Louis doesn’t want it, because he might be a popstar, but he’s an insecure popstar. 

 

“I wouldn’t have agreed if it wasn’t a yes. Consent, innit?” He wriggles his fingers at him, and Harry snorts, face contorting into the grin he gets that makes everyone think he looks like a frog.

 

“Right, okay.”

 

Harry climbs onto the sofa, and Louis turns so their knees are touching. They sit like this a lot; mostly because Louis refuses to let Harry put his freaky toes on his lap. It’s not anything new, and it’s comfortable. Always is, even if that sentiment is a little sappy.

 

“We’ve got like,” Louis counts the date backwards, “a week and a half ‘til we have to pretend, though. We could wait a little.”

 

“Practise makes perfect,” Harry insists, and Louis takes that as the consent admission that it is.

 

He puts his hands on Harry’s jaw, fingers curving around it, and this isn’t anything new either. They’ve always been tactile; face touching is practically a certified Harry and Louis Thing.

 

Harry’s eyes flick down to Louis’s mouth and then back up again, eyes wide. He really does look like a frog. 

 

Louis leans in close, mumbling out a “you’re sure?”, waits for Harry’s responding twitchy nod, and presses his lips to his.

 

Their noses bump a little, so Louis moves a little to the right, thumb sinking into the hinge of Harry’s jaw so his mouth opens a little bit. The warm puff of air every time Harry breathes is just this side of too much.

 

“Kiss me, you fool,” Harry mumbles, and Louis chokes out a giggle into his mouth.

 

It’s a little scary, how easy it is to just lean in and press his mouth to Harry’s. How easy it is to move his head slightly to the right when Harry goes left, how easy it is to taste the gross kale smoothie Harry’d had for lunch on his own mouth. 

 

But it’s good, and for a first kiss (or, more like first sober kiss), it’s practically magical. If Louis were to be that much of a gooey sap. But he’s not, so it’s. Pretty okay.

 

Harry’s tongue slides against Louis’s lip, soft and tentative, and something aches in Louis’s throat.  _ Fucker better not be getting me sick _ , he thinks, before realising that one kiss can’t do that. But Harry would totally be the type to manage it, freakishly good immune system be damned. For all he knows, Harry could be a plague carrier.

 

That’s a little bit of a mood killer, even for an asexual, so he leans back and wrinkles his nose.

 

“You’ve not got the plague, have you?” 

 

Harry looks slightly offended, mouth kiss-red and eyebrows drawn together.

 

“Do I kiss like a plague carrier?” 

 

Louis figures fucking with Harry isn’t the worst thing to do, so he just shrugs.

 

Harry looks mildly panicked, now, eyes wider than they had been before they kissed, hand going to cover his mouth. He seems to start a bit when he realises they’re damp, and then the pink spreads up his neck, and Louis figures that’s enough.

 

“You don’t kiss bad,” he means  _ you kiss better sober _ , “it’s pretty alright. For a potential plague carrier.”

 

Harry just rolls his eyes and leans in; mouth sliding against Louis’s, and Louis doesn’t even get a chance to make a jibe about consent before he just lets it happen, because Harry’s just. A really fucking good kisser.

 

The kiss is warmer, this time, not hot because nothing really is for him, but it’s  _ nice. _ Like, supremely nice. Harry’s lips pressing against his, mouth moving gently, teeth nipping at his. He kisses a little like he was made for it, and a lot like he wants to be here. 

 

Louis wonders why his old datemate ever dumped him, if they got  _ this _ .

 

The thought about what might have been the reason makes his stomach churn, so he kisses back firmer.

 

Harry leans back with him, hands reaching out to grab Louis’s waist, fingers digging in. Louis slides between his open thighs, arches his neck to get a better position. Makes sure to press the tip of his tongue against the seam of Harry’s lips so he makes a little whimpery noise in the back of his throat.

 

They kiss for a while, like that, and Louis doesn’t even think once about how Harry could have the black death. (Well. Maybe once.)

 

Harry’s mouth is warm, and wet, and kisses so softly that it makes Louis feel just this side of weak-kneed. He leans into it, fingers tucking into Louis’ shirt, Louis’s own hands still stroking at the hinge of Harry’s jaw. 

 

Louis’s the first to pull back, slowly rolling back onto his heels, grinning down at Harry sprawled beneath him. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, and Harry sighs a little bit.

 

Harry blinks lazily up at him, thighs around Louis’ waist, smile starting at his eyes before it moves to his mouth.

 

“You’re a good kisser,” Louis relents, and Harry’s mouth twitches up, “for someone with the plague.”

 

Harry bites at the palm of his hand, and Louis has to bite his lip to hide the grin at the fact his mouth’s still wet from kissing.

 

Then Harry kicks him right in the stomach, shoving him off the couch, and Louis doesn’t have time to get sappy.

 

++

 

Neither of them mentions the kissing thing, which is probably a bad idea. Communication is key, or something, and Niall seems to agree, if his texts are anything to go by.

 

LOUIS: its nt a big deal !!! just a kiss ! nothin big

 

NIALL: rmr when I came out to you as aro and u said tht it wasnt a big deal bc u were ace?? thts not a big deal. this is a big deal

 

LOUIS: thta barely counts u were pissed out of yr mind

 

NIALL: dont tell me my coming out doesnt count.. I wont serve u fr the next month

 

LOUIS: i’ll tell zayn ur being a bad barman n he’ll fire u bc he lovs me

 

NIALL: cant fire som1 ur in a platonic relationship w .. it’s against the law

 

LOUIS: YOU DIDNT TELL ME ABT THAT WHATT EH CUK !!!!!!!!!!!!

 

NIALL: [smirking emoji]

 

Louis grunts and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. He can’t believe Zayn and Niall have been  _ lying  _ to him. He was betting on them needing at least another two months to get together, and now he’s going to have to cough up a tenner to Harry. (Not that he  _ needs  _ it, because Harry’s a multi-millionaire, which is a fact Harry pretends to forget in betting games.)

 

“Harry!” he yells, and Harry pokes his head around the kitchen door, apron around his waist. He looks so much like his mum it’s terrifying.

 

“What? I was just getting into the groove of doing washing up, arsehole.”

 

Louis mentally puts the words ‘groove of doing washing up’ into his ‘Things To Mock Harry For On Twitter’ file, and walks after Harry into the kitchen.

 

The sink’s spilling over foam, because Harry’s never been good at washing dishes, no matter how many times he’s insisted he’s perfect at it. They could definitely afford a dishwasher, but Harry refuses, because ‘but what if the machine doesn’t want to wash dishes, Lou?’

 

Louis mostly lets him do it because he spent most of his childhood up to his elbows in dirty plates and three-day-old cereal bowls. Seeing a scourer still gives him the shivers.

 

“Did Niall tell you that he and Zayn were in a platonic relationship?” 

 

Louis’s so glad he has Harry as a best friend, because he’s pretty sure half his old schoolmates wouldn’t understand what he’s asking. Harry  _ does _ , though, because he and Harry had spent a good three hours making a list of different identities to stick on their bathroom door as a way to make their flat safer. (It’s not even the dorkiest thing they’ve done, which is horrifying.)

 

Harry’s eyes go wide, bubbles hanging off his chin.

 

“They got their shit together?” He realises what that means half a second later. “You’ve got to pay me now?”

 

Louis flops onto the floor, starfishing out so his arms and legs hit the cabinets on either side of his body. He lets out a guttural moan that Harry just laughs at.

 

“But I don’t  _ want  _ to pay you,” Louis whines, peeking through his eyelashes, “you’re rich. I’ll pay you in, like, compliments.”

 

Harry scoffs. Because Harry is an  _ arsehole. _

 

“When was the last time you gave me a compliment?” Harry asks, reaching a soap-slippery hand down to help Louis off the floor.

 

Louis wipes his hands off the second he stands, tempted to towel-whip at Harry’s thighs. He resists, because he’s a good person.

 

“When we snogged.” Louis deadpans, face blank, just to watch the way Harry’s eyes go wide and he hurriedly turns to get back the washing up.

 

Considering the way he kisses, he’s ridiculously easy to fluster. 

 

“You ashamed about being my pretend boyfriend, Styles?” He asks, voice all syrupy low, eyelashes fluttering. It’d work on Zayn, but Harry just rolls his eyes.

 

“I’m ashamed of being your friend,” Harry sniffs, but then adds, “I’m not, that’s a lie.”

 

Harry finds it physically incapable to be properly mean for over five seconds, whereas Louis expresses his love through mocking and prodding too hard. It’s not his best trait, but, well. Harry’s never complained, so.

 

(And, Jesus, the fact he uses Harry as a reference point for whether one of his traits is bad is… just this side of Really Revealing.)

 

“Zayn and Niall,” Louis prompts, and Harry nods. They’re both the type to switch conversation tracks quickly; it’s the only way they’d managed to stay out of trouble most of the time in school. How many conversations had their teachers almost overheard about pranks in the locker rooms? One too many, Liam would say.

 

“It’s not like it’s unexpected,” Harry says. “It’s cute.”

 

It is cute. Zayn and Niall have been whining about being qpr-less for the better part of eight months, now, and getting closer as a result. All of them (besides Zayn and Niall, probably) had seen where it was going. Louis refuses to ever tell Zayn he finds it’s cute, because Zayn would probably push him out of his third storey window.

 

“Yeah, I just hate giving you money.” Hence the reason Louis had smashed their Bad Decisions jar last year. (They both made so many bad decisions that it was a little worrying how fast the jar filled up, anyway. Louis maintains that’s why he smashed it.)

 

“You would think you’re used to it,” Harry smirks, and Louis wonders if his fans know how much of an annoying arsehole he really is. “Considering all the times you’ve lost at poker to me.”

 

Nevermind the fact that Louis  _ lets  _ him win, because he is gracious and kind. 

 

“Anyways,” Louis responds, “you wanna make out?”

 

Harry smashes the bowl in the sink in response, and Louis just bends over and cackles into his knees.

 

(They don’t make out. They spend a long time talking about the strategy for the next weekend, about the fact they’d be in a hotel. About the fact it was going to be A Big Affair, even by Anne’s standards. About the fact it was actually going to be pretty posh. Louis only mocks Harry three times. It’s a success.)

 

++

 

Zayn’s got his feet tucked under Louis’s thighs when Liam brings up the whole fake relationship thing again.

 

He and Harry had pinned the contract to the fridge as a sort of solemn reminder of their sealed fates, and Liam hasn’t stopped staring at it for the last half an hour. Louis figures that if he leaves him to it, he’ll start talking soon enough.

 

Louis’s just about to finish a mission on Grand Theft Auto (“that’s a bad influence!” Harry yells every time he plays it) when his prediction comes true.

 

“You do know you’re in love with him, right?” Liam sounds accusing, which is a little insulting. Liam spends half his time polishing antiques with very specific rhythms. If anyone should be sounding accusing, it’s Louis.

 

“That hasn’t escaped my notice, yeah,” Louis says, and pauses the game. Zayn’s feet wriggle under his thigh in a signal of him wanting to take over, so Louis passes over the controller.

 

They sit in quiet while Zayn drives through the mountains and crashes the car. There’s a good goddamn  _ reason  _ Louis controls this game eight times out of ten, and it’s not because he’s a controller hogger.

 

“What if it ends up hurting you, though?” Liam’s voice is careful, and Louis is suddenly reminded of the day he’d come out.

 

The way that Liam’s (ex) girlfriend had turned her nose up at him and he’d had to act like it didn’t sting, the way that he’d still tried to make Louis feel better on the same day. The way that he’d flinched as he explained what being polysexual meant, and Louis just told him he’d already known and it was fine. The way they’ve always been brothers to each other. Protecting is his thing as much as it’s Louis’s, and he just wants Louis to stay safe. 

 

Still. Louis’s naturally defensive.

 

“I’m an adult.” He says it with less venom than he would to anyone else. “I can look after myself.”

 

Zayn snorts, and Louis just reaches over to click on the accelerating button so the car flies off a cliff on screen.

 

“I know that,” Liam responds, and he has the puppy dog look on. “But I just want to make sure you know that you don’t have to do it alone.”

 

Louis grins, and Zayn clamps one hand over his mouth.

 

“No Captain America references.”

 

Louis just licks his palm. Zayn doesn’t flinch, because Zayn’s used to his antics, which is either really nice or really irritating. Maybe both.

 

“He set it up and everything, though, and it’s not my fault that Bucky’s so-

-”

 

“Painfully bisexual?” Liam puts in, and Louis nods rapidly. “Really, though, you need to look after yourself.”

 

Louis sighs, pulls Zayn’s hand from his mouth, and says, “being in love with Harry isn’t a death sentence. It’s not even that  _ bad,  _ honestly.”

 

Zayn gives him a look that plainly says ‘you’re a fucking liar’, but he doesn’t respond. He is an Adult, and he can Pick His Own Fights. (Zayn not being one of them, because Zayn’s scrawny but he packs a punch.)

 

“Harry’s great, we know, you know, everyone knows, but setting yourself up to be his fake boyfriend can’t be good for your feelings.” 

 

“Just make sure you’re not doing this so that no one else can, okay? It’s scary that you love him, we all get that, but pretending to be his fake boyfriend won’t mean you’re not any more.”

 

The thing is, Louis’s been in love with Harry for years now. At first, realising it had scared the shit out of him, but it’s not really like that any more. Like, sure, there’s still days that the all consuming love he has for Harry makes him stop dead halfway through doing something, but. It’s not worrying. 

 

The whole fake boyfriend thing is to help Harry, but he wonders if maybe subconsciously it was to help himself. Or to give himself a chance to let go of the idea. Or, even more horrifyingly, a way to let himself have it.

 

_ That  _ scares him, a little, so he stuffs a handful of day-old popcorn into his mouth and tries to forget he ever thought about it.

 

++

 

Louis wakes up with Harry poking at him insistently, pressing his phone into his hand. It’s buzzing repeatedly with messages, and so’s Harry’s. Zayn always ends up sending eight thousand messages before Louis’s even ready to face the day.

 

He wonders if he can curse him from his bed.

 

**FANTASTIC FIVE**

 

ZAYN: how much does a kittne cost

 

ZAYN: bc like theoretically theyre smaller so

 

ZAYN: Shldnt they cost less

 

ZAYN: they look so tin y

 

NIALL: u do kno that it’s still a no

 

ZAYN: babe pls

 

LOUIS: keep ur gross aro pda out of my face @ 10am

 

**ZAYN changed the group’s name to ‘ARO PDA’**

 

Louis debates leaving the chat just for that, but there’s a strong chance they wouldn’t invite him back for a week as penance. He just stuffs it under his pillow to mute the vibrations of incoming messages instead.

 

“Why couldn’t you let me rest?” Louis asks, looking at Harry.

 

He’s grinning, all dimples and wild hair, and he looks a little bit like a duckling. Hair all out to here and excited like someone just gave him a chunk of bread.

 

“I was in the mood for kissing?” He asks, and Louis rolls his eyes, but tamps down on a grin.

 

He’s been coming up to him the last few days, really, asking him if he wanted to kiss. Keeps insisting that ‘practise makes perfect’ against his mouth, and Louis doesn’t mind. Kissing’s fun, and kissing Harry even more so. 

 

“Yeah, sure, just don’t pull my hair out this time.”

 

Harry leans over him without responding, and Louis leans up to meet his mouth. It’s warm, minty, and that makes Louis hyper aware of the fact he’s probably got really fucking awful morning breath.

 

He doesn’t apologise, though, because Harry’s mouth just closes over his, warm and wet and slick, fingers curled at the nape of his neck. He figures Harry can’t really care that much if he’s still kissing him, still moving his head slightly so that Louis has space to move if he wants to.

 

Louis kisses back lazily for a while, mind slowly slipping out of its sleepy haze, and Harry’s the first to pull back this time.

 

He leans his elbows right on Louis’s ribcage, ignoring the way Louis lets out a choked “I’m dying” in response, just grins at him with his tongue between his teeth.

 

Louis’s half tempted to chase it back into his mouth, but he’s also too tired to do that.

 

“Does it count as practising if I’m barely awake when you spring it on me?” he asks, one eye drooping closed. 

 

“Your technique isn’t much better when you’re fully awake anyway,” Harry says, and springs out of the way when Louis goes to punch him in the shoulder.

 

“You kiss like an arsehole,” Louis grouches into his pillow (mostly because, this way, Harry can’t see the flush that rises up his neck. That’d be… embarrassing).

 

Harry wriggles his eyebrows at him, like he’s about to make a shitty joke, and Louis truly hates him. He deserves better than this, he’s sure; rest and lie-ins and breakfast in bed. Many cuddles. Not Harry, with wicked eyes and a smirk on his face because he knows he’s an alright kisser.

 

Louis hasn’t even started pretending to be his boyfriend, and he’s already fucked up about it.

 

“We gotta get up,” Harry mumbles, and Louis’s eighty percent sure that’s his toe poking at Louis’s rib, “stuff to do.”

 

Louis considers just yanking him into bed and cuddling him into sleep, but for the first time in his life, Harry’s actually right. 

 

It takes five minutes for Louis to stagger upright, Harry watching him from where he’s perched on Louis’s shitty dresser (“we could get it fixed, you know,” Harry’s told him about a thousand times. It’s the principle of the matter. Harry’s rich and Louis’s just barely well off, and his dresser still  _ opens _ so it’s  _ fine _ ). 

 

Harry passes him a shirt that Louis had cheerfully stolen from him the second he’d come back from tour, and Louis pulls it over his head with a grunt. 

 

“Shitty shirt,” he grumbles, just because he can. Harry just wraps an arm around his shoulders and raps his knuckles against Louis’s skull in response, and Louis’s so used to it he doesn’t even bother pushing him off.

 

He slept in his sweats, so after he’s fiddled with his fringe, he’s pretty much ready. Harry makes him wear shoes, which Louis would protest at if he wasn’t this close to climbing back into bed, and then he’s shoving him out the door. The morning light is too much for his weak eyes, and he squints against the sun.

 

He’s pretty sure waking up before midday on a Saturday is, like, against the law, but Harry says it makes him feel less like dying the Monday after. (Harry’s a liar, but Louis allows it because spending optimum amounts of time with Harry that he can is never really a bad thing.)

 

Harry climbs into the driver’s side of his Jeep, and Louis crosses his ankles on the dashboard, arms behind his head.

 

“What are we doing today?” His voice is still raspy, and Harry hands him a mint with a wrinkled nose. As if he hadn’t snogged him ten minutes ago. Harry’s such a fake friend.

 

Louis sucks on it while Harry gets the car warmed up, still slightly annoyed by how many buttons the thing has. (Louis had been with him when he’d bought it. Harry had almost cried when he realised that there was more controls than he had hands for.)

 

“Gotta go shopping,” Harry responds, and it’s not fair that he sounds put together. “I’m going to the market after, because I need to pick up a few things for dinner, but then we can just chill out at home.”

 

Louis stays quiet while Harry pulls out of the parking space, listening to him yammer on about how Niall threatened he was coming over today before his shift (not that Zayn would care if Niall was late, but Niall refuses to let Zayn treat him differently. Says it’s a show of favouritism, and favouritism is rooted in capitalism, or something.) 

 

The side profile of Harry’s face makes Louis’s stomach clench a bit; drenched in watery early-morning light, his mouth still red from their kissing. He maintains that it’s only because it’s before noon that he has to bite down on a knuckle to stop the way his hands itch to just. Hold him a little.

 

He nudges at the radio dials instead, turning it over to Kiss just in time to hear the beginning notes of Harry’s latest single.

 

“Oh, Jesus, turn that off,” Harry grunts, going to slap his hand out of the way but then hurriedly putting it back on the wheel when the car turns. “I don’t wanna hear that.”

 

“You know, for an aceflux person, you write some pretty dirty lines,” Louis says, grin quirking up after the words  _ waking up in my t-shirt _ float from the speakers.

 

Harry flushes, ears going just this side of pink, which Louis counts as a complete success. Making Harry flustered about stuff  _ he did  _ is one of Louis’s favourite pastimes.

 

“It wasn’t my idea anyway.” 

 

Louis looks at him properly. He doesn’t seem upset by the sexual content, the way he gets sometimes. His eyes are shiny like they get when he’s trying to think up a way to embarrass Louis into pausing what he’s doing.

 

Louis gets there first. Louis’s a pro at mocking Harry, at this point.

 

“Harry, you know that you can call me, right? That I’m your good time, right? That I’ll be your temporary fix, right?”

 

“Oh my  _ God,  _ shut  _ up _ ,” Harry whines, voice petulant like a two year old, “leave me alone. I’m just trying to live my life in  _ peace. _ ”

 

Louis levels him with a wicked grin.

 

“But you’re climbing over me when I climb in the backseat--”

 

Harry lets out an indignant scream and Louis has a startling worry that they’re going to plough off the road.

 

“Shut up! I hate you!” His voice is so loud it makes Louis’s eardrums throb, but it’s mostly because he’s dramatic. Louis regrets the year he’d decided both of them joining drama club would be a good idea. It never gave him anything good.

 

Louis goes quiet for a moment, goes back to watching the road with wide, innocent eyes. He’s so good at this. He should get an award for this.

 

“ _ Let me be your goodnight _ .”

 

He only revels a little in the way Harry just lets out a defeated sigh in response.

 

++

 

Watching Harry shop is a little like watching a heart attack in slow motion.

 

He puts more poptarts in the basket than Louis ever knew existed, and by the time they’re at the till, half of their trolley is full of junk food. There are at least two boxes of chocolate chip cookies under the head of lettuce Harry had put in on a whim. He’s a fraud masquerading as a health food nut. 

 

Louis is deeply proud.

 

The person at the till gives Harry a look like  _ are you sure you want to do this _ , and Harry just gives one of his dimpled grins that no one ever questions. It’s disgusting.

 

Louis takes packing duty, and Harry pays it off because Louis  _ never  _ pays for groceries. It’s their thing, has been ever since they moved in together. No one else gets it, but they don’t have to.

 

It takes them all of half an hour; they have the whole shopping-on-a-time-limit down to an art, mostly because neither of them like spending more time in public than they have to. Cuddling up on the sofa and binge watching Netflix is more important. 

 

(“It isn’t,” Liam had once said, “it is not more important than socializing”. Louis had just tucked a blanket over him and turned  _ Cars  _ on at full volume until he stopped speaking.)

 

Louis’s just clambering back into the front seat when Harry speaks up.

 

“We need a proper plan of action for this weekend.” His eyes are serious, but there’s a smile around his mouth like this idea is the Best Thing He Has Ever Done. Louis only feels slightly wary.

 

“Isn’t it pretty simple? I pretend to be your boyfriend, your mum cries because she thinks we’re a perfect couple, I eat all of your Aunt Pepper’s bread rolls.” He crosses his ankles over each other, and Harry just rolls his eyes.

 

“We need to plan how to announce it, though. Like, whether we just turn up on Friday and tell everyone, or if we wait ‘til Saturday.”

 

Louis wrinkles his nose. They’re leaving on Friday afternoon anyway; they might as well just announce it when they get there, but he can see Harry’s point. Harry’s entire family has met him more than once, and half of them probably like him better than Harry. There’s no way they’re not going to get nosy.

 

“We need a story? Like, how we got together?” He asks, and Harry gets a glint in his eyes that haunts Louis’s nightmares.

 

“ _ Exactly _ .”

 

++

 

Harry waits until they’re at home to properly get back into it, and Louis wonders if he’s been looking forward to this forever. If the whole plan for this thing was devoted to Harry making the most dramatic story of how they fell in love. 

 

Honestly, considering the way Harry’s pulling out a paper pad and a pen, it probably is. 

 

Louis just watches as he draws out a table (left column titled ‘REASONS WE GOT TOGETHER’ and the right titled ‘ROMANTIC ACTS AS A DECLARATION’ followed by a truly inordinate number of exclamation marks). He’s thought about getting with Harry a lot, over the years, and he doesn’t want to accidentally reveal all his most secret fantasies doing this.

 

“Suggestions?” Harry asks through a sheet of his own hair, and Louis rolls his eyes.

 

“I feel like they wouldn’t fall all over the idea of you getting piss drunk and asking to have your wicked way with me, right?” Louis asks, stealing the pen from Harry’s hand, and Harry frowns.

 

“I’m out as ace to them, there’s no way they’d eat that up,” he looks vaguely disappointed, because of course he does. He’s such a  _ dork _ , Jesus Christ.

 

“Sexual attraction and sexual activity are two different things,” Louis responds, and notes down the word ‘Valentines’ in the left column. 

 

Harry nods approvingly.

 

“What kind of thing are you going for? Where we were both miserably single so I went out on a limb and asked you out? Or a blind date where our friends set us up with each other because they know we’d been madly in love with each other since we met and were tired of our shit?” 

 

Harry looks eager, all wide eyes and dimples, and Louis snorts.

 

“If you wanted to date me, you could have just said, Styles.” (He doesn’t mention how true that actually is, because.  _ Embarrassing _ .)

 

Harry sniffs and rips the paper from under Louis’s hand, “fine. No blind dates, then.”

 

Louis curls up his legs underneath his thighs as he thinks something up, watching out of the corner of his eye at the doodle Harry’s pressing to the top corner of the paper. 

 

There’s a lot of ways they could have gotten together, honestly; being best friends means that the whole ‘having to bond’ thing would be taken out of the equation. The route Anne (and everyone else in the world) would probably fall over best is one where they kept trying to invite each other on dates but the other thinking it was just a friendly night out.

 

If it happens to be one of Louis’s favourite fantasies where they get together, no one else has to know.

 

“Mistaken dates,” Louis voices, and Harry doesn’t even have to ask what he means before he’s nodding vigorously. They probably know each other too well.

 

(“It’s fucking  _ creepy _ ,” Zayn had said once, “like those twins from The Shining.”

 

“ _ Right _ ? Horror movie worthy, honestly.” Niall high fived Zayn, beer sloshing down his front.

 

“We’re the dream team,” Harry butted in, and Louis just gave a smug grin in response.

 

“Yeah,” Liam agreed, “if your dream team is Freddie Krueger.”)

 

“The old ‘oh shit you didn’t realise this was a date’ fiasco? That’d be perfect.” Louis glances over the piece of paper, where Harry’s jotted down notes while he wasn’t looking.

 

The left column is filled with words like ‘get together pact’ and ‘Zayn interference’, and it makes Louis feel just this side of exposed. 

 

Because, really, those are all things he’s dreamed of to himself. The whole act of being in love with Harry means he’s spent a pathetic amount of time imagining ways in which it could work out. 

 

He doesn’t need to tell Harry that, though. 

 

“Exactly,” Louis repeats Harry’s words from earlier, “and the whole romantic acts thing?”

 

That column’s blank, except for the word ‘song’, which Louis can work out easily enough. It means writing each other a song, which, considering Harry’s profession, isn’t too out there. It actually sounds like something they’d do. 

 

(Louis had written a song for Harry’s last album, even, because he always stands in as a co-writer when Harry needs someone else’s opinion. It’s where most of his cash for last Christmas had come from.)

 

“Mum likes the small sappy things,” Harry says, scratching at his chin, “like, doing breakfast in bed and stuff. She’d love that kind of stuff, but.”

 

Louis nods in response; they’re not the breakfast in bed type. They’re more the ‘take turns getting pastries from the bakery down the road and leave them in the microwave’ type. Anne probably wouldn’t buy that, not for them.

 

“The song idea’s pretty normal,” Louis says, tapping his fingers on the word, “something like posh baths would work, too.”

 

Harry grins and notes that down when Louis passes him the pen. 

 

“Say that I went on a spree at Lush and got eight bath bombs to try out, innit?” Harry asks, and Louis grunts.

 

“No, what the fuck? I’m the one who goes to Lush all the time, thanks. I constantly smell like lemon and jasmine, she’d never buy it if you did it.”

 

It’s true; Anne always mocks Harry for wearing the same scent all the time, and then in the same breath compliments Louis for smelling like a parfumerie. (Like, Harry also shares the body soap, but Louis wears more. He should be a popstar. He’s practically made for it.)

 

Harry grunts but notes down ‘louis/lush/baths’ anyway.

 

“Ticket to a concert? We’ve been to thousands,” Harry adds it to the list without Louis’s response, which he figures is his payback for smelling good all the time. It’s not Louis’s fault that Harry smells like garbage, honestly, the  _ audacity _ .

 

“My opinion is clearly invaluable,” Louis snarks, and Harry doesn’t even look up before he smacks his hand to the back of Louis’s head.

 

Louis yelps and goes to grab his wrist, but Harry just twines their fingers together instead. He’s such a loser.

 

(Louis pretends not to feel fond.)

 

Harry jots a few more things down, nodding at Louis’s commentary, and by the time the page has filled out they have a fairly solid relationship. Anne will  _ definitely _ tear up at it. It’s perfect.

 

“Alright, so,” Harry turns to Louis and crosses his legs, “we need to rehearse this.”

 

Louis nods solemnly. “We finally got together after years of longing-”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Harry interrupts, “you know what I mean. Don’t be an arsehole.”

 

Louis wrinkles his nose up, ready to protest, but. Harry’s not wrong. If they act like they’re not sure about how they got together everyone’s going to get suspicious, and. Upsetting Anne has never been Louis’s plan; for this weekend or in life in general.

 

“We got together because I kept asking you out and you thought I meant as a friendly hangout.” Harry pokes his knee to continue, and Louis bats him away. “Yeah,  _ alright _ , give me a second. Jesus. Anyway, you thought it was a friendly hangout, and I kept on getting frustrated because I just wanted to go out with you, but you’re an oblivious arsehole, and so, like. One night--Valentine’s night--I got so frustrated I just yelled about it being a date, and you were all taken aback because you didn’t think it’d be mutual, and that’s how we got together. And now we’re living happily ever after, the end.”

 

He finishes with a grand gesture, arms sweeping and chin pointed in the air.

 

“Why’s it gotta be me being oblivious?” Harry whines, voice all high and pitchy like it gets when he’s putting on a mood.

 

“It’s true to life,” Louis responds, before hastily continuing, “and besides, your mum will like it better.”

 

He considers ripping his own face off at almost completely exposing himself to Harry, but he doesn’t seem to have realised. Or, if he has, he’s too busy trying to balance a pencil on his top lip to bother responding.

 

True to life. Jesus Christ, Louis hates being right.

 

++

 

By the time Harry’s disappearing into his bedroom for the night, they have the whole story pretty much perfected. They have about four stories to tell that’ll make everyone sure they’re the sappiest couple God has ever seen, and two backups that are things they’ve actually done.

 

Louis doesn’t have time to repeat the last backup story to himself before his phone’s buzzing insistently against his thigh.

 

He quickly unlocks it, fingers slightly stiff from being cold, and sees two messages from Niall.

 

NIALL: [Attached Image]

 

NIALL: LOOK WHT Z BOUGHT ME !!!!!!!!!!!

 

It’s a picture of the aro flag embroidered onto a duvet cover, and Louis grins in response. Niall had been looking at that for ages, but couldn’t justify buying it. Of course Zayn would have bought it for him. Their displays of affection are almost worse than the ones he and Harry had drafted up.

 

LOUIS: tell him 2 give u a pay rise so u can get him nicer stuff

 

NIALL: [thumbs up emoji] [green heart emoji] [money bag emoji]

 

NIALL: ur nothin if not a golddigger tommo 

 

Louis snorts and sends a shitty selfie of himself flipping the bird, and Niall responds with a selfie of he and Zayn blowing a kiss at the camera.

 

LOUIS: go back 2 ur aro datenight

 

NIALL: if u go back 2 ur fake boyf 

 

LOUIS: [poop emoji]

 

NIALL: thought so ! 

 

LOUIS: [knife emoji]

 

++

 

Harry’s out of the house when Louis wakes up, and he decides to take the time to tweet pictures of Harry so that his fans all mock him.

 

He’s just settling onto the sofa and pressing ‘tweet’ on a picture of Harry snorting milk out of his nose when Harry texts him.

 

HARRY: stop that everyone’s mocking me as they come in and we’re not doing any songwriting

 

HARRY: you’re a bully

 

LOUIS: nevr

 

He tweets the milk snorting picture with the caption ‘get wrecked’, and the retweets come in at the hundreds. He hopes this becomes a meme again. Birthing memes is a little like getting an early Christmas present.

 

HARRY: please stop it!!! please!!

 

Louis tucks his chin against his chest and sticks his middle finger up at the camera, and then sends it.

 

It takes a minute or so for Harry to respond, and when the tweet notification comes through, he realises why.

 

He quickly snaps up the contact book and scrolls through until he gets to Harry’s name, and hits call.

 

“You’re a traitor,” he yells the second Harry picks up, “I trusted you!”

 

Harry cackles, “next time you tweet a picture of me falling over doing pilates, maybe you should take the fact it can go both ways into account.”

 

Louis lets out a wounded squawk. It’s true, sure, but. Harry  _ left  _ without even giving a note. He deserves any and all memes that come from this. Louis, however, is an innocent soul and only deserves kindness and support. And, like, cuddles.

 

“Is that any way to talk to your fake boyfriend?” He asks, and Harry snorts in response. 

 

“When that fake boyfriend’s you, it is,” he responds, before continuing, “I’ll be back by three, yeah? Julian called me in to write on something, but we’re finalising, so it shouldn’t take ages.”

 

Louis tries not to feel offended at the fact that Harry assumed Louis missed him, because Louis has never been sappy in his life, but. It’s not wrong. Which is really fucking irritating, honestly. Makes him a little grouchy.

 

“Yeah, loser, see you later.” He clicks end call with his thumb, and then decides to do what he does when Harry’s on tour; procrastinate work by falling into the void of the internet.

 

It’s not because he misses Harry. That would be absurd.

 

++

 

Louis’s halfway through one of Harry’s shitty yoga videos when Harry comes back.

 

He lowers his leg from where it’s extended to the ceiling, and Harry snorts as he comes into the room. 

 

“If you wanted to be introduced to the joys of yoga, you only had to ask,” Harry drops his guitar case on the ground with a thud, “like, honestly. I could teach you the basic moves.”

 

Louis slumps onto the yoga mat under him (blue, with little grey specks), and lets out a groan that he’s pretty sure sounds a lot like a no.

 

Harry puts his toes onto Louis’s stomach, and Louis forgives him.

 

Not that he has anything to forgive him before. Because he didn’t miss him. Like, at all. Not even a little bit. Didn’t get a little bit sad when he realised he had five hours until Harry would be home.

 

“Miss me?” Louis asks, pushing his stomach up to press against Harry’s toes. 

 

“Nah,” Harry responds, before biting his thumb, “maybe? A little bit. We haven’t been apart in a couple weeks, it was a bit weird, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, because if Harry admits it that means he’s the original sap. “Kind of glad we’re together the whole weekend, honestly.”

 

Jesus Christ. Overkill, much? He’s such a loser. 

 

Harry just nods, and they sit in comfortable silence for a couple of minutes.

 

“Hey, Styles?” Harry lets out a soft “hm?” in response, “what song were you working on?”

 

Louis blinks up at him when he doesn’t respond, and he knows why immediately. He’s flushed pink up his neck, like he’s mortified, and he refuses to meet Louis’s eyes. It’s suspicious. Louis has to know.

 

“Not important,” Harry responds, clipped and sharp, “honestly. Like, not at all.”

 

Louis narrows his eyes.

 

“Tell me,” he flips over and grabs Harry’s ankle, fingers poised over the soft skin, “or I’ll tickle you.”

 

Harry looks vaguely panicked, like he’s not sure which is worse, and Louis feels the part of him that wants to tease Harry forever light up like a candle. Making fun of Harry is the best part of his day. It’s what he lives for. He was put on God’s Green Earth to mock Harry Styles until he cries.

 

“ _ Louis _ ,” Harry whines, and Louis gently pats his fingertips over his heel. He tries to kick out, lets out a pathetic grunt when he realises Louis’s holding his foot too tightly for him to wriggle free. “Leave me  _ alone _ .”

 

“Tell me the song,” Louis responds, eyebrow arched as he drags one knuckle softly from his toes to his ankle bone. Harry lets out a squeak.

 

“It’s just,” Harry yelps when Louis digs in a nail under his big toe, “ _fine_! Fuck, it’s. If I Could Fly. That’s what it’s called now _ohmyfuckinggodIhateyousomuchletGO_!”

 

Louis releases his foot with a triumphant hoot, and Harry kicks him right in the collarbone as penance. But that doesn’t matter, because Louis won. He’s a winner. He’s never going to lose in his life.

 

“That sounds so dramatic, honestly, you’re such an Indie,” Louis cackles, sprawling over Harry’s lap.

 

Harry just gives a soft groan as his answer.

 

“Bet it’s sappy and everything, isn’t it? All--”

 

Harry shuts him up with a hand on his mouth, shoving his thumb against Louis’s tongue and not even flinching. They’re too close. This should be a boundary issue for one of them, but it isn’t.

 

“It’s meant to go with another song that you started, actually,” Harry says, and Louis goes red and stills on his lap. 

 

Louis doesn’t really write songs unless it’s for Harry’s albums, but he’d been working on one called Home a little while ago that he couldn’t finish because it reminded him too much of Harry. It’d made him feel like he was essentially telling the paper he’d written it on that he loved his best mate in a not-only platonic way. Having a piece of paper judge him for his life choices had never been his greatest aspiration.

 

“Like, yours was about realising you’re valid and okay, and this just plays off that,” Harry continues, and Louis wants to  _ die.  _ “You inspired me that day when you brutally stole my cinnamon rolls.”

 

Louis snaps a leg out to kick at Harry’s waist, but Harry knows he has the upperhand, and he’s milking it for all it’s worth. Louis needs a better best friend.

 

“Leave me alone,” Louis mumbles around Harry’s fingers, “that was never finished, that song.”

 

“It was really good, though, so I just. Figured it’d go better with a pair, y’know? Yours is this whole validating song, If I Could Fly is more, like.” He wobbles his spare hand around, “a representation of the person who helps you realise it’s okay.”

 

Louis nods, sucking on Harry’s fingertip and nipping it when Harry tries to take his hand back. It’s actually strangely nice, being quiet and listening to Harry talk. Especially about something he’s passionate about. Harry’s hand as a steady weight on his jaw is also weirdly calming.

 

Harry lets out a soft hum, “there’s a lot of allusions to home. Figured it was a hint of a pair.”

 

Louis snorts, pressing his hands against Harry’s fingers in his mouth and tracing the veins on his wrists with them.

 

“Nerd,” he slurs, “comple’ fuckin’ nerd.”

 

Harry presses down on Louis’s tongue until Louis lets out a soft whine, and then just settles his hand carefully back against his jaw. Louis doesn’t really pay attention to it.

 

He’s too busy thinking about their songs being a pair, and wondering if Harry had realised the song was about him.

 

++

 

Louis hates Thursdays in general, but he hates this one more because he has to spend most of the day deciding what he’s bringing this weekend.

 

The napkin with the contract on is staring up at him from his dresser, and Harry’s staring up at him from the floor, because Harry’s an arsehole and knows how to pack fast. 

 

(Because he always leaves packing for tour until the literal last minute. He’s unorganised, and Louis wants to tell every single one of his fans that he once spent forty five minutes crying on the phone because he forgot his toothbrush in the rush. Never mind that he could afford to manufacture his own goddamn toothbrush if he wanted. Apparently his ‘felt like home’, whatever that means.)

 

“Plaid shirt or no plaid shirt?” he asks, and Harry tilts his head up to look properly. It’s one that he’d liberated from Harry a few years back as a sleep shirt, but which he now uses to go to the shop in. And also hotels where he pretends to be his best mate’s boyfriend.

 

“Plaid shirt,” Harry decides, and Louis folds it up and shoves it into the bottom of his suitcase.

 

He sorts through a couple of his jeans and holds the ones with the slits in the thighs up to examine.

 

“Yes or no?” 

 

Harry nods immediately, “makes your thighs look great, trust me.”

 

Louis narrows his eyes. He doesn’t know if he trusts another ace to decide what makes his thighs look great.

 

He tugs them on over his boxers, instead, and takes a picture to send to Liam.

 

LIAM: ur thighs look great ,, wld be bettr w/o ur boxer lines tho

 

LOUIS: fuck off i didnt ask fr judgment of my fashion choices r.e: boxers

 

LIAM: shld hav texted zayn then 

 

“Liam says yes,” he says instead of texting back, and Harry scoffs.

 

“As if I’m not an expert in what makes thighs look good. I’m a  _ popstar _ .”

 

Louis throws his balled up socks at him in response. Serves him right for being a cocky arsehole.

 

“My mum still hasn’t figured out that it’s you, by the way,” Harry voices after a minute of silence. 

 

Louis blinks. He’d kind of assumed she had, at this point, at least had very strong suspicions. Maybe she’s just too shocked to take the idea seriously.

 

“Thought she knew the dietary requirements, though? Isn’t that a giveaway?”

 

Harry shrugs lazily, crossing one ridiculously long leg over the over. He looks like the picture of ease, as if he’s not planning on lying to his mum.

 

“Must have gone out of her head with the plans for the wedding,” Harry responds, and it takes Louis a couple seconds to realise what he’d said.

 

“What wedding?” He tucks the jeans into his suitcase, eyes going wide. 

 

Harry blinks, like he didn’t expect that response. “The wedding this weekend? The one you’re pretending to be my boyfriend at? That wedding?”

 

Louis considers how much effort it would take to brain himself on the cabinet next to the bed. Probably less effort than it would have taken to listen to Harry. Really, past-Louis fucked everything up for present-Louis. He truly hates past-Louis.

 

“I thought it was a fucking reunion, oh my  _ God. _ ” Louis wants to die. Just, like. Slightly.

 

A family reunion is an entirely different atmosphere to a wedding, is the issue. He’d just assumed that, with a family reunion, he’d get to chill out and mostly just hold Harry’s hand every now and then. Weddings, however, are an entirely different beast.

 

Weddings are, most commonly, about romance. Which means people are going to get infinitely more picky about his and Harry’s faux-relationship, and probably start making jokes about their own wedding bells in the future.

 

Louis didn’t sign up for this. He signed up for a quick family event with Harry because Harry doesn’t know how to lie for shit and Louis can’t say no to him. He didn’t sign up for this.

 

He knows, because he’s looking at the napkin as proof and it doesn’t say anything about that. 

 

“No, what the fuck,” Harry blinks incredulously up at him, “I swear I went into this saying wedding.”

 

Louis remembers perfectly. He’d said, in his own botched terms ‘big thing’. The word wedding wasn’t mentioned anywhere. Louis wants to  _ murder _ him.

 

“You said big thing,” he slumps over onto his bed, breath getting knocked out of him as the mattress smacks him. He needs a better one. “You said  _ big thing _ , not  _ big wedding that means everyone’s going to expect us to be all over each other for _ . I’d remember that. I’m a good remember-er.”

 

Harry claps his hand over his mouth, eyes going wide to match Louis’s, as he hisses out a soft  _ shit. _

 

Fucking right. Louis’s going to demand compensation for this. At least two weeks of foot rubs and alcohol. Maybe an all-expenses paid spa. He’d deserve it, after dealing with Harry.

 

Louis wants to call him out on social media. He deserves nothing better.

 

“Shit, so that might be my fault,” Harry admits, garbled through his hand. Louis spares him a huff of laughter. He’s so giving.

 

“Do I need to suit up?” He asks, instead of yelling about how Harry’s the worst goddamn liar the world has ever seen. 

 

Harry snorts, rolling his eyes, “It’s, like, my cousin’s wedding. Not important enough for you to suit up, but maybe try business casual.”

 

Louis sighs, tips out his suitcase, and starts again.

 

Harry can help pack this time. He owes him.

 

++

 

Liam calls halfway through dinner to tell them both that this is the worst mistake of their lives.

 

Louis wouldn’t usually agree, but the recent memory of Harry having not said anything about it, in fact, being a fucking  _ wedding _ , has left him feeling vindictive and petty. He deliberately elaborates on Harry’s beaten-up record player, knowing full well Liam will get interested and put in an offer.

 

The slight guilt he feels is totally worth the sigh Harry directs at him ten minutes and a text later.

 

“I hate you.”

 

“Tell that to your cousin’s wedding guests, Styles.”

 

Louis isn’t guilty enough to not enjoy the way Harry slumps onto the floor in defeat. He’s not a  _ robot. _

 

++

 

Louis has his knee tucked under his chin, tongue poked between his teeth, steadily painting his toenails, the picture of peace and wholesome-ness, when Harry decides to ruin his mood (and, inevitably, his life).

 

“We have to leave in an hour,” he begins, arms waving. He looks a little like one of those inflatable tube people. He’s not sure on their name, but. He’s still correct. “It’s a whole trip down there, you know that, we’ve got to  _ leave soon _ .”

 

“Technically, we’re driving up,” Louis corrects; softly painting a purple line onto his big toe. His hands aren’t steady enough for the flag to look  _ exactly  _ correct, but it’s good enough. He figures if his whole life is fucked over because he can’t say no to Harry, he deserves to have cool-looking toes while doing it. 

 

Emotional hell comes with a cool colour palette now, he’s decided.

 

“Shut the fuck your mouth,” Harry says instead, eyes bright like they always are when he’s mocking Louis.

 

And, like, it’s so unfair. Louis had said that when drunk out of his  _ mind, _ it’s not fair that he’s held accountable for that. It’s been two years. Harry is pure evil and nothing but. Louis hates him.

 

“Shut the fuck  _ your  _ mouth.” He tilts his foot up so he can blow on his toes to dry the polish, and Harry just watches him with a weird quirk at the side of his mouth.

 

Louis doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t want to know. 

 

He’s faster about applying the topcoat, though, because they really  _ do  _ have to leave soon, and Harry’ll only get whiny if he decides to take more time to spite him. It’ll be him paying the price, and. Isn’t that the story of his fucking life, honestly.

 

Harry stays leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets and twitching like he wants to keep moving around, or maybe like he wants to start looking into how to become a pilot on Wikipedia.

 

When the topcoat’s dry, Harry just throws him his shoes (his nicer black trainers, instead of the ones that have holes in the sole), and walks back into the living room while muttering loudly about how Louis is “irresponsible and an arsehole”. He’s not technically incorrect, so Louis just pulls the shoes on and follows him through the door.

 

Their suitcases are already sat at the door, and really, it’s not going to take an hour to get ready. But Harry’s buzzing like if Louis spends another second in his room he’s going to explode into a tirade of weird animal facts, so he just. Goes with it. Which is exactly how he got in this situation, really.

 

“Did you have to rush me?” Louis asks, because he’s not a  _ saint. _ If there’s anything he likes better than taking the piss out of Harry, he hasn’t found it yet.

 

Harry gives him a short snuffle in reply, and Louis just. Blinks.

 

“Okay, look,” he begins, turning to Louis with this Look in his eyes, and Louis automatically goes to bite at his thumbnail in preparation. “I called my mum a little bit ago, and I told her about you. Not that it’s you, stop looking at me like that, God. But like. The basic outline of how long we’ve ‘been together’, and she’s all antsy, so she’s definitely gonna ask a lot of questions. Like, so many. And it’s stressing me out a bit, thinking about it, so I need a distraction.”

 

Louis nods, pulling his thumb out of his mouth. Dealing with Harry is a little like dealing with an over-imaginative five year old, sometimes. Not even in a bad way, just. Harry gets a little (a lot) caught up in his own head, and he needs distractions a lot.

 

Louis has, on occasion, had to Skype him five minutes before he went on stage to take his mind off how big the gig was. He’s used to dealing with Harry when he’s like this; whether it’s just asking him about the Latest Updates On Wikipedia, or if it’s something else.

 

Harry slumps against his suitcase, body curling into itself, and Louis knows that the only thing that’s going to get him out of this is going to be a bad idea on his part.

 

But, like, he’s made bad ideas for years now. This whole thing is just One Big Bad Decision. One more barely adds to the pile.

 

“You wanna make out?” He repeats his own words, and this time Harry just nods, ears burning red.

 

Louis sits down in front of him, leans up, and slots his mouth over Harry’s.

 

Harry is, honestly, one of the best kissers Louis’s ever met. He kisses like it’s his one true goal, and he makes it all about feeling good and warm, and it’s not sexual, not like the expectations Louis’s had to deal with over the years.

 

It’s easy, because it’s completely  _ them _ , and Louis doesn’t have the sense of mind to even get anxious about it. Just kisses back, tongue swiping over Harry’s mouth until Harry opens his in return. 

 

Harry wraps his fingers around Louis’s wrists, pressing like it’s the thing that’s keeping him from shaking apart, and Louis smirks against his mouth.

 

“Fucking sap,” he mumbles, and Harry just nips at his bottom lip in response. 

 

Louis moves onto his knees so it’s more even (Harry’s back is wrecked enough as it is, he doesn’t need help screwing it up because he’s too stubborn. Which, coming from the resident Capricorn, is probably hypocritical, but), moves one hand to curl against Harry’s jaw. Harry just rolls his eyes, like he’s going to take the piss out of him for being Predictable and Bad At Kissing, and that. 

 

That is illegal.

 

So, instead, he moves his hand so it settles on their joined hands, and brings them back up to stroke over his own mouth. He hears Harry’s breath catch in response, and Louis feels vaguely, weirdly proud of it.

 

Harry pulls away a second later, eyes wide and bright, lips dark red. 

 

“S’pose you’re not awful  _ bad _ , are you?” He asks, voice all rough. 

 

“S’pose you’re not either?” Louis responds, and Harry just rips his hand from Louis’s and flicks him square between the eyes.

  
  


He doesn’t get anxious again before they leave, and Louis figures his job’s done. Even if he can’t stop thinking about the way Harry’s mouth felt on his.

 

++ 

 

Harry is, without a doubt, the worst driver Louis has ever met.

 

Like, admittedly he  _ knew  _ this, because he was with Harry when he first learned to drive at sixteen, and that was. A ride and a half. He’s pretty sure Ms. Arnold hasn’t forgiven them for almost killing her cat yet.

 

Harry’s been an awful driver ever since he started learning, is the point, but nobody ever saw it fit to deny him the ownership of big, too powerful cars. Because every single person on this earth has a death wish. And, like Louis, no person on this earth can actually say  _ no  _ to the too-tall, gangly, green-eyed arsehole that is Harry Styles. At least he’s not alone in that.

 

Louis’s just pulled himself off the window, hip aching from where it had slammed against the handle, when Harry gives him a look that’s so  _ happy  _ Louis doesn’t even want to complain. That’s saying alot, considering who he is. Complaining is second nature to him. It’s a part of his core being: a bit short, an okay (maybe even good) friend, complete whiny arsehole.

 

“Maybe,” Louis starts, squeezing at his side to try and alleviate some of the throbbing ache, “like. Go softer on the turns.”

 

Harry gives him another gleeful grin, before almost crashing the car into a lamppost.

 

It’s a long drive, but. Louis doesn’t really mind so much, when Harry starts humming deliberately out of tune.

 

++

 

Despite Harry’s abysmal driving, they actually arrive in one piece, and Louis’s so anxious he wants to vomit.

 

He doesn’t, miraculously, just clambers out of the car and goes around to the boot to fiddle with the lock while Harry goes to check in and get his mum. 

 

This is it. His eternal fate. He’s going to die.

 

The hotel, on the outside, is pretty plain. It’s big, but it’s not The Ritz. It’s nice, vaguely medieval looking with ridiculously big grounds, a sign above the door that just says “Hotel” in simple lettering. It’s definitely wedding venue material.

 

A good place for his soul to die, even.

 

It takes a couple minutes for Anne to appear, and Louis half wants to crawl under the car and act like he never came. He doesn’t know why he agreed to this. He is an awful decision maker and should leave immed-

 

“ _ Louis _ ?”

 

Anne’s voice is so incredulous Louis is just this side of offended.

 

Her eyes are wide, mouth open in a tiny ‘o’, like she tried to stop but couldn’t, and. Louis can totally feel that. He feels that to his bones.

 

He feels like dying to his bones, too, but. That’s not relevant.

 

“Hey, Anne,” he says, a choked murmur, pulling the suitcases out of the boot. 

 

Anne looks like she’s two seconds away from a heart attack in the hotel’s parking lot, which. Is not really the whole thing he and Harry were going for, he doesn’t think.

 

“You? And… Harry? I mean, I thought I recognised the… allergy info, but. Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

She turns to Harry, eyes dark like she wants to hit him, and that’s not really the thing that he and Harry were going for, either, but Louis’s just glad it’s not directed at him.

 

He’s sort of smug that Harry has to deal with his mum’s wrath, honestly. Serves him right for not mentioning it was a fucking wedding. Fucking traitorous arsehole.

 

Louis’s so caught up in his bitterness that he forgets where he is for a second.

 

“...didn’t even feel fit to tell me your date is your  _ best friend _ ! I’ve been telling everyone you’ve landed yourself a boyfriend, and it’s Louis!” Anne’s yelling, hands flying through the air.

 

“We’re dating,” Louis interjects, sharp. He has no self-preservation left in him, apparently. “We’ve been dating for a while, we just… didn’t know how to bring it up.”

 

Harry gives him a look like he would die for him, and Louis plans on taking him up on the offer. He owes him so much more than a couple bathbombs. Maybe a car. A holiday to the farthest reaches of the universe, where he doesn’t have to say yes to everything Harry does.

 

Anne blinks, voice suddenly stuck in her throat, and Louis scratches the back of his neck, feeling a little awkward. Which, for the record, has never happened near Anne in the history of he and Harry being best friends. Not even that time that Louis had to call her to say that Harry was so drunk he was trying to climb on their roof. 

 

It makes him antsy.

 

“We should probably talk about this inside,” she says, finally, face going slightly less manic, “um. Come on.”

 

He and Harry follow her like scolded children, and Louis elbows Harry once in his ribs so they can have a hasty conversation with their eyes. It consists mostly of  _ not really the plan, huh?  _ and  _ we might have fucked that one up a little bit. _

 

The gravel crunches underfoot, suitcases making huge echoing noises across the grounds, and it’d be really pretty if not for the vague feeling of Impending Doom hanging over their heads like a guillotine.

 

When they get inside, the reception area is empty except for the person at the desk, and Anne gives them a look as she settles down on one of the sofas. They follow her lead, and she narrows her eyes at them.

 

“How long have you been dating?” Her eyes are narrowed, hands on her knees, and it’s oddly like getting a job interview. If Louis didn’t already know her, he’s pretty sure he’d be screaming and running for the hills by this point.

 

She’s almost as terrifying as Jay is when she’s focused on something.

 

“Valentine's,” Harry interrupts, sliding a hand onto Louis’s thigh, “last Valentine’s. Louis had been asking me out on dates, and I hadn’t actually  _ realised  _ they were dates, and. Then that night he asked me again, and I didn’t understand, and he got all-”

 

Louis smacks at his arm, “it’s not my fault you were oblivious. I got irritated because I wanted it to be a date, so I told him, and then he got all gross and sappy and said it was mutual, and. Here we are, I guess.”

 

It’s weirdly easy to lie, to just tell this huge fucking fable, because it’s not like he and Harry don’t know each other. They’re best friends, they know how to react to things the other one talks about, are on the same wavelength ninety percent of the time. It’s spectacularly simple, just sitting here, smacking at each other, Harry’s hand on Louis’s thigh, acting like they’ve been dating for over a year.

 

Anne looks suspiciously close to tears, even though that’s not even that  _ sappy _ . Like, he and Harry don’t do sappy, it’s really not their style, but still. This isn’t the most romantic-sounding story they have to tell.

 

Then again, he supposes, her and Jay have been talking about this for ages, now. Ever since they were young, about how they were ‘meant for each other’, so maybe that’s it.

 

“That’s over a  _ year _ ,” she quickly wipes a tear from under her eye, “why didn’t you tell anyone?”

 

Harry gives Louis a look from the corner of his eye, and Louis pastes on a smile, tangling his and Harry’s fingers together. It’s so easy. His heart keeps leaping into his throat.

 

“Wanted to make sure it was all official and sorted, I guess,” he puts on a false show of nervousness, because he was the best in drama class and he’s a scammer and a fraud. “Like, you know, couldn’t believe I finally had everything I wanted, and I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t gonna be a passing thing. Wanted something for meself, I guess.”

 

He pretends to tear up a little; thinks of that time Niall once got so drunk that he almost fell off of his balcony, bites back a snort of laughter at it. 

 

Anne buys it completely, looks like she wants to do nothing but tell Harry off for making Louis doubt him, and honestly. Louis loves Anne.

 

Harry pokes at his thigh, a gesture of  _ Christ, she’s gonna adopt you as a son instead of me,  _ and Louis just grins smugly at him when Anne turns away for a second.

 

He’s got this whole pretending thing in the bag. As long as he doesn’t accidentally reveal he is, actually and literally, in love with his best mate, it’s going to go fine.

 

He feels it.

 

++

 

The interrogation, for the most part, goes  _ fine.  _ Like, sure, there are a couple times Louis’s vaguely terrified Anne’s going to see through them and murder them immediately, but mostly? They get out of it unscathed, and follow her up the stairs to the room she’d booked them.

 

She chatters the whole way there, about how  _ really you should have said something sooner, so I didn’t have a heart attack wondering,  _ and  _ Louis, I really do need to tell your mum, she owes me _ . Which Harry is vaguely incensed by, actually, tenses up next to Louis and wrinkles his nose like he’s trying to ignore she ever mentioned it.

 

She leaves them outside the room with a smile and a little tear in her eye, and then it’s just. The two of them. Until dinner at six. It’s a little startling. Louis expected, like, more maiming. But instead Anne just looked ecstatic about it, which can’t be a good sign.

 

Still. They can do what they want for three hours, and that’s all Louis really gives a shit about, if he’s being honest.

 

Harry high fives him, and Louis lets out a cackle of laughter as they enter the room, and then they both freeze.

 

It’s really pretty, looks like it costs a load of money, but Louis’s focused on the bed more than anything.

 

Like, really, he should have known that there’d only be one bed, and  _ objectively _ , there is no issue with that. Because he and Harry have shared loads of beds over time; when they were embarrassing kids with missing teeth, when they were even more embarrassing teachers, on tour when Niall, Zayn and Liam had stolen all the other bunks on the bus (and those bunks were  _ tiny _ ). They’ve even shared at  _ home _ , for Christ’s sake, it’s completely ridiculous Louis’s reacting this way.

 

It’s not a fucking big deal, and yet it still feels like his chest has gone and caved in.

 

Which is ridiculous. Because Louis isn’t sappy, doesn’t get all mushy over Harry. He doesn’t. He needs at least three shots of straight vodka before he starts talking about how he even likes Harry.

 

He is not this weak.

 

“One bed,” Harry says faintly, as if Louis isn’t having a tiny crisis in the doorway, “I mean. That’s fine, it’s huge anyway, really, so.”

 

Harry shrugs his shoulders, mouth doing an odd twitchy thing like he can’t control it, but other than that his face is blank. Louis wants to read him like always, but the arsehole isn’t letting him.

 

Louis is going to sue him. Right after he stops panicking for no reason about this fucking  _ bed _ .

 

Louis walks into the room, kicking the door shut behind him, glances around the place to try and distract himself. There’s a leather couch tucked next to the full length windows, and it looks so hipster Louis’s this close to taking a picture and asking Zayn if he felt inclined to sketch it. 

 

It’s gorgeous, this huge room with an en suite, all natural light and leather sofa and beds. It’s the bed that’s the fucking problem. Louis diverts his attention to the art hanging on the walls, and secretly thinks that the shit that Harry hunts down in his spare time is better.

 

Not that he’d ever tell  _ him _ that, but still.

 

Harry slumps across the bed, flicking off his shoes so they land next to the open door of the en suite, and Louis decides to join him.

 

The bed is almost comfy enough to make his anxiety disappear completely. Almost.

 

He is a very anxious person.

 

“‘S comfy, though, fuck.” Harry pokes gently at Louis’s side, hand warm through Louis’s shirt, and the only thing he can think about is kissing him just a few hours ago.

 

He needs to get a fucking grip, honestly.

 

Louis moves his hand so it settles near Harry’s, and Harry curls their fingers together. It makes something ache in Louis’s chest, even though he’s done this a thousand times before, and really. He’s going to sue himself for feeling things at this rate.

 

“Guess we convinced your mum, though?” Louis says, blatantly ignoring the way he wants to move closer. That’s so dramatic. His brain is literally evil.

 

“Yeah, I think so?” Harry shrugs, and their hands jostle because of it. “There’s still everyone else, though. Don’t think they’ll pay much attention tomorrow, considering it’s mostly all hanging around and probably watchin’ all my elderly relatives get drunk, but. Still.”

 

Louis nods, eyes slipping closed for a moment. 

 

The plan of the wedding, Harry had explained (after withholding the information for a month), was that there was a general family do on the Saturday, and the actual wedding on the Sunday. The general family Thing (capital letters and all) is just, essentially, a reunion before the wedding festivities took over.

 

Louis doesn’t really get it, but he supposes it makes sense. Like, theoretically, or something.

 

Louis shuffles closer in response, body going warm when his side presses against Harry’s, and he tightens their hands on instinct. Holding Harry’s hand is. Really nice, honestly. His favourite thing, but-

 

“That was really gay, Lou.” Harry grins, eyes all wide and joking, and that is. Not appropriate. Awful. Many other bad things, and such, and. 

 

“My hand twitched!” Louis yelps in response, trying to untangle their hands, blush crawling up his neck, and Jesus Christ is there something in the air here? What keeps making him so flustered? It’s nothing, he can deal with this, he can deal with Harry.

 

He once watched Harry piss the bed from laughing too much at a meme, the fact he’s in love with him should come second to that. He watched him go through his awkward teenager stage, even, which was hell for the both of them. He shouldn’t be flustered over Harry.

 

“And I’m  _ bi,  _ you arsehole,” Louis spits, faux-angry, and Harry just makes grabby hands when Louis finally manages to pull free. 

 

“Stop being a loser,” Harry responds, “and brush your teeth, Jesus, your breath  _ stinks _ .”

 

Louis blows a puff of air straight into Harry’s nostril, and feels weirdly smug when Harry topples off the bed backwards.

 

He brushes his teeth anyway, but it’s not because Harry asked. It’s because he wants to. (Or, that’s what he insist, but Harry wriggles his eyebrows at him anyway, and Louis’s a good enough person that he doesn’t kick him off the bed again.

 

++

 

“Hold my hand,” Harry gripes, pressing his back against the elevator door, “you’re gonna need to in all of ten seconds anyways, just do it.”

 

Louis wrinkles his nose at Harry’s hand. He’s been sweating for about fifteen minutes, now, rattling off facts about baby deers like it’s his job. “Do I have to?”

 

Harry just lets out a cacophonous sigh, like he’s long-suffering, and Louis honest to God wants to dump him dramatically in the dinner hall just for the drama of it all.

 

Louis takes his fucking hand, anyway, and whines for the twenty seconds they’re in the elevator for.

 

He knows they’re going to have to step up their game; start getting more touchy-feely than they always have been the second they get into the dining room (“Specially hired out for the wedding weekend!” Anne had told them, eyes bright), holding hands and smiling at each other all soft and fond.

 

It’s not them. Louis once spent twenty minutes making a racket when Harry had a hangover just because he’d stolen one of his drinks the night before. In the name of constant, everlasting pettiness, their friendship consists mostly of publicly humiliating each other on twitter until the other snaps.

 

It doesn’t, really, include a lot of fondness. Touching and holding hands is one thing; they’re both absurdly tactile, Louis likes holding hands, it works out that way. He also likes mocking Harry about how sweaty his hands get. 

 

Sappiness isn’t their Thing. It’s Zayn and Niall’s thing. 

 

Louis can’t believe he’s actually considering asking them (the literal resident aros) how to look romantic, but he’s honestly considering shooting off a text to the both of them about it.

 

This is what his life has come to. His soul is burning. There is no hope.

 

The elevator dings open, and it feels like a death march.

 

“Stop being so dramatic,” Harry rolls his eyes, rubbing a thumb over Louis’s knuckle, “nothing bad’s gonna happen.”

 

Louis scoffs. “Last time you said that, I agreed to be your friend.”

 

The story of their becoming friends is fairly twisted from the original, but it goes like this: Louis had been trying to climb the highest tree he could, and failed repeatedly, so Harry had acted as his footstool. His (now-infamous) words had been “nothing bad’s gonna happen”, and then Louis had fallen from eight feet in the air and cracked a bone in his foot. They’ve been best friends ever since.

 

Louis still blames Harry for the phantom pain to this day. He’s not that forgiving.

 

Harry just punches him gently in the gut, and then shoves the dining room door open.

 

Eight heads turn to look at them immediately, and they all look vaguely shocked. They’ve all met Louis before, since they’re best friends and have been inseparable since they were nine and seven years old, so he just shrugs one shoulder and puts on a bashful face.

 

It disguises the fact he wants to punch Harry in the throat well enough, he thinks.

 

“Finally!” Harry’s aunt Pepper yells, before turning to her wife, and whisper-screaming: “didn’t I say they were going to end up together? I fucking  _ said  _ so, didn’t I?”

 

Her wife just rolls her eyes in response.

 

Louis really likes her. She really does make the best bread rolls. 

 

He and Harry make their way over to where Anne’s sitting next to Robin, and Robin smiles at them in response. Anne must have told him. At least Louis doesn’t have to deal with his ‘hurt my son I will genuinely stab you’ talk. Louis’s seen that talk happen before. He hasn’t stopped feeling vaguely terrified since.

 

Gemma lets out a noise like she’s dying.

 

“I bet on you leaving for tour again before anything happened,” she flicks her hair between her fingers, looking morose. Louis thinks it’s fairly deserved, since betting on when people are going to get together is probably immoral in some way or other. Even if Harry snorts in laughter in response.

 

“Why d’you think we got together? We just wanted to run you out of house and home,” Harry smirks, eyebrows wiggling as he leans over the table, “hear it might be worth a couple hundred pounds.”

 

Gemma’s mouth goes into a hard line, like if Anne weren’t there she’d strangle him. Louis truly empathises with her.

 

He bets that if he and Gemma were to team up, they could take him down. 

 

“I’m pretty sure that’s classist,” Louis adds in, and Gemma’s face lights up in a smirk.

 

Harry blinks. “Is it?”

 

“A joke about worth using money as a punchline is the most capitalist thing I’ve ever heard.” Louis flutters his eyelashes at Harry, “I’d rather you talk communist to me, baby.”

 

Harry snorts, and Anne rolls her eyes on a sigh.

 

She loves them really, though, so it’s probably okay.

 

(If it weren’t for Louis’s mum being the biggest socialist this side of the proletariat, Anne would be  _ at least _ eighty percent responsible for Louis and Zayn’s 3am rants about equal distribution among the people.)

 

“Can we keep the politics talk to a minimum?” Anne asks, turning briefly to watch as a few more family members wander into the room. She gives a small wave, and they nod back, and go to sit at the table behind them.

 

“As if you’ve ever done that in your life.” Robin coughs into his fist, and Louis hides a grin in Harry’s shoulder.

 

Being with Harry’s family isn’t so bad, he thinks.

 

++

 

Louis manages to finish dessert without vomiting all over Harry’s shoes, which is a big success. He’s spent the last month and a half living off cereal and shitty takeaway, and the change is a shock to his system. He’s currently debating self-immolation.

 

His mum would tell him that he needs to take that as a sign to eat less Pot Noodles, but he’s mostly taking it as a challenge.

 

“All I’m saying,” Louis grunts, barely holding back a wave of nausea, “is that when I reached for a second piece of gateaux, you should have stopped me.”

 

“And all  _ I’m _ saying is that if you even  _ dare  _ vomit on me, I’ll leave you for dead in the cold.”

 

Harry’s so unaccomodating. Louis is going to explode.

 

“Your mum would never forgive you,” Louis rubs a hand against Harry’s stomach through his soft shirt, “she likes me better than you.”

 

“I’d say to stop telling lies, but I don’t even think you are.” (He’s not. Anne once asked if she could trade him in. Louis has the moment pictured and framed.)

 

“Don’t feel bad. I’m an upgrade from everyone.” Harry shuffles into the elevator slowly, so Louis can keep hanging on, and as much as Louis acts like he’s just barely handling being friends with Harry, he’s a liar. He loves Harry. 

 

He hides his smile in Harry’s shoulder blades, because at least if no one sees it it’s not sappy.

 

Louis reaches out to press the button, and Harry relaxes back, until Louis’s practically holding him up. As if Louis isn’t currently at risk of exploding into tiny, cake-filled bits of shrapnel. 

 

“That went well, though,” Harry adds, after a second of silence, “like. Really well, considering.”

 

Louis nods against his back. It  _ had  _ gone really well. The only person who’d reacted loudly had been Pepper, and that hadn’t been a big deal. Outside of her, everyone had just given them knowing looks and congratulated them with a lot of mumbled exclamations of ‘finally’ and ‘Harry got his head out of his-’ and ‘tell him to stop being smug about everything before he explodes’.

 

Louis had spent a good ten minutes talking to Harry’s cousin Matt about how Harry was actually a disappointment of a boyfriend, and Harry had countered it with a spontaneous showing of embarrassing pictures of Louis in various states of undress while drunk.

 

All in all, the dinner hadn’t been half as terrifying as he’d made it out to be. It had been  _ fun _ , which. Maybe he should have expected that, considering how Harry’s family is his in all but name.

 

Harry stumbles out from the elevator like a newborn deer, and Louis just whines into his back as he clings tighter.

 

By the time Harry’s sliding a keycard into the slot, the only thought in Louis’s head is of himself  climbing into bed and not getting out until. Eternity.

 

But, because Harry is probably evil, he doesn’t let him.

 

Harry kicks the door shut behind them, and gives Louis a ridiculous smug smirk over his shoulder, which only makes Louis think of worst scenarios. Broken bones. Slingshots that are very poorly made. Imminent death.

 

“What are you doing.” 

 

Harry just twists them around until he’s the one behind Louis, and starts shoving him towards the en suite. This does not bode well for the hundred years of sleep Louis had in mind for himself.

 

“Stop.”

 

Harry cackles into his shoulder, and Louis slumps back against him, trying to weigh him down with the full capacity of his post-dinner body, but Harry keeps shoving. Louis needs a better best friend. One who lets him nap, preferably until it’s medically confirmed as a coma.

 

“Mother of  _ fuck _ , Harry, just tell me what’s  _ happening _ .”

 

“We’re showering,” Harry says, reaching around Louis and tugging his shirt up. Louis only allows himself to be manhandled because he’s too sleepy from the meal to bother protesting.

 

“Together?” Louis asks, and hisses when a wave of cold hits his skin. The air conditioning is a little too effective, honestly. 

 

It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve showered together; their boiler is ridiculously fussy and downright dangerous, and sometimes the only way to make sure it doesn’t explode is to shower at the same time, but it feels different, in this hotel, where everyone thinks they’re dating.

 

Like it’s something they  _ would and should _ do, because they’re meant to be boyfriends.

 

If Louis was a sap, he might siver at that. As it is, he manages to pass it off as being cold.

 

“Don’t be a whiny arsehole about it.” Harry pauses, and shoves Louis up against the doorframe leading into the bathroom, holding him in place with one pointy elbow. “I know that’s difficult for you-”

 

Louis just wriggles off his trousers while he’s waiting, trying not to hiss when the cold wall presses right against his nipples.

 

He’s just kicking the jeans to the side when Harry finally releases him from the wall with an eye roll.

 

“Took you long enough to get naked,” Louis says, and wriggles his eyebrows at Harry’s bare body.

 

“Get in there.” Harry shoves him into the bathroom, and Louis stumbles into the shower.

 

It’s one of those ones you can sit down in, huge and ridiculous and the kind Louis would give his left arm for. He flicks on the water and it’s almost sad, how much it shocks him that it starts off warm.

 

Harry comes in after him, black of his tattoos standing out against his pale skin, and Louis feels that familiar tug in his chest that he’s working towards forgetting is there.

 

He ducks his head under the warm spray, and Harry shuffles behind him even though there’s more than enough room for him not to. Louis doesn’t care; nakedness doesn’t bother or arouse him, and Harry’s naked often enough as it is. (Louis vies for the title of King of Nudity enough that all of his friend group has seen him naked, too, but he likes mocking Harry for it.)

 

The steam billows up around them both, and Harry grabs the little complimentary bottle of shampoo from the shelf to his right and squeezes some into his hands.

 

Louis’s knees are a little weak from the (absurdly good) meal they’d had, and he almost collapses when Harry starts rubbing the shampoo into his scalp, soft and warm.

 

“D’you need a massage?” Louis asks, trying not to whimper at the feeling of Harry gently scratching at his neck. 

 

Harry’s back is, for a lack of better words, completely fucking wrecked half of the time. Louis blames all the running about on stage, but he knows it’s also a souvenir from the time he’d landed on his tailbone after trying to climb up a tree after Louis when he was fifteen. 

 

It gives him a twinge when he’s been driving for a while, and Louis wasn’t naive enough to take Harry’s wriggling in his seat at dinner as restlessness.

 

“Maybe,” Harry lets out a sigh when Louis doesn’t let that go. But then, he can’t really have expected him to, and it’s his own fault if he did.

 

Louis spins around, knowing full well the shampoo makes his hair into a half-wilting mohawk, because that’s what Harry always does, and pushes Harry against the tile.

 

“Ooh la la,” Louis can  _ hear _ his smirk, “never had you for a-”

 

Louis shuts him up by poking him right at the base of his spine, and Harry lets out a whine of pain.

 

If he was a better person, he might not count it as a victory that he caused Harry pain, but Harry’s his best friend and also the most irritating person on God’s green earth, so he just giggles into Harry’s water-slick shoulder blades. He’s going to hell, but at least he’s going to hell knowing he’s never lost to Harry in a debate.

 

Still. He’s not  _ satan,  _ so he at least asks: “tell me if it hurts too bad?”

 

Harry just nods.

 

Louis squirts some body wash onto his hands, because he needs something better than water, and besides, he’s killing two birds with one stone.

 

He presses in at the top of Harry’s spine, and Harry hisses, but not in pain. He keeps rolling his fingers, letting his knuckles drag a little bit over the bonier parts of his vertebrae, watching the soap suds rolling down the drain at their feet.

 

He lets the shower spray hit him so that the shampoo washes out, and takes a pause in his assault of Harry’s muscles to rub shampoo into Harry’s hair, too, no-frills, as opposed to Harry, because he’s paying more attention to his back than his scalp.

 

Harry just grunts in response, which is pretty much his default response, so Louis doesn’t get worried that he’s accidentally broken every bone in his body.

 

“I’m gonna start with your tailbone,” he says, and Harry sighs, like he’s living the worst moment of his life getting a massage.

 

Louis sinks to his knees and digs his thumbs in, just above where Harry had actually injured himself years ago, and Harry yelps, shifting out of the way. So. That’s that.

 

He quickly gets back to his feet, because fuck if he’s accidentally going to injure Harry, and Harry rolls his eyes but there’s a look like thanks in his eyes anyway.

 

Harry pours out some conditioner into his hand, and gestures so Louis leans closer so he can get to it.

 

Louis leans into his hands, letting out a guttural moan that would sound sexual to anyone else, but that just makes Harry snort. It’s nice, Louis thinks. Getting to have a best mate in his life who genuinely, completely understands, who won’t make things about sex unless it’s just an innuendo. Who, even then, makes sure to take notes of body language to see if the person he’s joking around with it can deal with it.

 

Still. The feeling in Louis’s knees gets even stronger, like he’s about to topple over, and Harry quickly removes one hand from his hair and holds him up under his armpit, and Louis blinks up at him through hazy eyes.

 

It’s something about the steam and the hands, Louis thinks; something about the water rolling down Harry’s neck and face, but he’s suddenly hit with such an overwhelming urge to just  _ kiss  _ him, that it doesn’t really matter what it is that does it, just that it’s there.

 

“Kiss me?” He makes sure to phrase it like a question, because he doesn’t want Harry to feel like he has to. Consent is, like, incredibly important. Even Louis knows that, half-asleep and high off Harry’s hand in his hair.

 

Harry smirks, like he’s going to make a joke, but nods, so Louis just leans in to kiss him before he can make some fucking awful joke and make Louis want to die.

 

Harry presses him against the tile, one hand still under his armpit, other slipping from his hair to curl around Louis’s neck, and Louis arches into him.

 

The first movement of Harry’s mouth almost makes him pass out, he’s eighty percent sure, and the second, the way his tongue slides over Louis’s bottom lip, that’s enough to start a war. Or, like. It would be. If Louis had emotions. And feelings, and.

 

Oh, God, but Harry’s such a good kisser.

 

Louis’s too focused on pressing one hand to Harry’s water-slick hip to even bother distracting himself from the fact he’s actually a human being.

 

Harry tilts his head back, licks into his mouth and Louis. Is genuinely ready for death. 

 

He whimpers into it, the heat just this side of too much, and then Harry nips at his lip, just once, and Louis makes a snap decision. It could probably kill them stone dead, but Harry’s still carrying the extra muscle he always puts on on tour, and, well.

 

He can probably handle it.

 

Louis jumps up, wraps his legs around Harry’s waist, and waits for death with closed eyes and fingers digging in between Harry’s shoulder blades.

 

Harry doesn’t even miss a beat, just leans in to press another kiss to his mouth, and sighs against Louis’s mouth, breathless and kind of adorable. If Louis were into that kind of thing.

 

“Think ‘m gettin’ conditioner on you,” Louis mumbles, mouth still pressed to Harry’s, feeling the pull of their mouths. It makes his stomach clench absently.

 

“Yeah.” Harry puffs back, “ _ yeah. _ We should probably. Wash that out properly.”

 

“But we’ve got this whole  _ Notebook  _ thing goin’ on,” Louis responds, more of a whine than anything, which would be embarrassing, but Harry just grins and kisses him again.

 

It’s really satisfying when Harry pushes him further against the tiles, one arm tucked under his legs and the other carefully working conditioner free, mouth still not leaving his. Like a fucking romcom.

 

Louis reaches for the (half-empty) conditioner bottle, and carefully pours some into his hand to work through Harry’s hair. If he doesn’t, it’s only going to be a mess to work with, and then Harry’ll blame  _ him,  _ like it’s Louis’s fault Harry is a poor excuse for an adult.

 

Harry carefully removes his mouth from Louis’s, probably trying to breathe, the fucking oxygen hogging arsehole, and then presses gentle kisses to Louis’s throat.

 

Louis’s breath resolutely does not hitch. It doesn’t. He will never admit it. He will take this to his grave.

 

Louis just shakily continues working the conditioner through Harry’s hair, gently tilting them both back under the direct spray after he’s just mostly playing with the silky curls.

 

Of course, that’s the moment when Harry tries to press a kiss to the underside of Louis’s jaw, and almost chokes himself with the water that pours from overhead.

 

Louis has the forethought to press himself against the tiles before Harry drops him and kills them both, but Harry just lets out a ragged cough before pressing his face into Louis’s collarbones to stop himself from drowning.

 

Louis’s almost impressed. Almost.

 

“Way to kill the mood,” Louis says, when Harry doesn’t seem close to death.

 

Harry just sinks his teeth into Louis’s neck, sucks gently and Louis feels his whole body tighten with it.

 

Hickies are sort of His Thing, the thing he always does to everyone else without really thinking about the fact they feel really fucking good, but. They do. They feel  _ so good,  _ and it makes his face flame with heat as he whimpers and shifts his back against the slick tile.

 

“Kill the mood, huh?” Harry asks, before licking over the mark, and Louis’s mind is too hazy to hit him for it.

 

“Shut up.”

 

++

 

Louis’s skin is still vaguely pruned up from the shower an hour later, but Harry doesn’t care. Because Harry’s asleep. Like an arsehole.

 

And Louis  _ can’t  _ sleep, even though he’s literally exhausted, because he can’t stop touching the purple bruises on his jugular.

 

After the sixth time he’s brushed over them (because Harry had sucked more marks into his skin like it was a goddamn  _ game _ ) without thinking, he grabs his phone from the nightstand. If he has to suffer, the others have to suffer as well.

 

He flicks open the groupchat without Harry in, and types:

 

LOUIS: i fuckd up

 

It doesn’t take more than a minute for someone to respond.

 

NIALL: dude

 

ZAYN: bro lmao 

 

LIAM: do u need a genie in a lamp

 

LOUIS: no

 

ZAYN: shit

 

ZAYN: it’s bad isnt it

 

ZAYN: pls say we dont hav 2 bury a body

 

ZAYN: actually don’t say anything the less i kno th less likely itll be i get locked up

 

LOUIS: it’s harry

 

It takes a little longer for them to respond, even though he can fucking see they’re all typing, and Louis wonders if they’re all going to pull variations of ‘fucking told you so’ on him.

 

By some miracle, they don’t.

 

LIAM: do i need 2 kill him hahaha (i would though. For you)

 

NIALL: thts rough

 

LOUIS: is this ur aro way of saying that heartbreak sucks n u feel bad for me 

 

NIALL: u know that feel when ur looking forward to somethn it’s not as good as u expected? Me dating zayn. I kno what disappointment is and it’s his breath in t morning 

 

ZAYN: i will break up with u

 

ZAYN: more important whts up though.. Did harry call u babe did u cry

 

LOUIS: i didnt fucking cry where th fuck did u get ur information

 

LOUIS: he gave me a hickey. Or like 5 

 

LIAM: [attached image]

 

The picture of Liam’s hand clasped over his mouth fits how he feels, too.

 

LOUIS: is it fucked up im in love with a boy

 

ZAYN: ur literally bi

 

ZAYN: also i wouldnt kno what thats like

 

ZAYN: im 2 agender for that

 

NIALL: im zayn constantly talking abt being agender when he could hav said he’s just too aro to know

 

ZAYN: i struggled for a long time with that fuck u

 

NIALL: im zayn trying to guilt trip me into feeling bad when he showed me eight agender memes this morning alone

 

LOUIS: im th hickies on my neck that represnt my broken soul

 

LIAM: im me muting this chat

 

By the time Louis puts down his phone again, he feels mildly better. Distraction works better than he’d think, and he falls asleep before he gets to press his fingers against the bruises on his throat.

 

It really is a representation of his broken soul, though.

 

++

 

Louis wakes up to Harry’s arm twined around his waist, which isn’t unprecedented, and the dry press of lips against his throat, which is.

 

It makes something warm curl in the pit of his stomach, a reminder of the fact he still has Harry’s mouth marks on his skin, and he wrinkles his nose and tries to squirm away.

 

“Bet you haven’t even brushed your teeth, you heathen,” Louis mumbles, and Harry snorts and leans forward to press one last kiss to the back of his neck. He’s stronger than Harry’s affection, but he still blushes a little bit.

 

“Gotta get up,” Harry mumbles, voice rough, “the whole reunion thing’s meant to start at ten.”

 

Louis pulls his phone off the bedside cabinet and clicks it on. It’s half nine, because literally every single member of Harry’s family knows he doesn’t know how to be early. (Harry insists that it’s Louis’s influence, but unlike Harry, Louis isn’t literally awful.)

 

“Least we showered last night.” Louis responds, coaxing himself away from the warm press of Harry’s body. “All hot and steamy, like.”

 

When Louis turns back to glance at him, Harry’s got his lip bitten between his teeth, and Louis knows that look.

 

“Negative day?” It’s the protocol, at this point. Harry tries to cover up that sometimes he can’t handle any allusions to sex, and Louis checks in with him so he doesn’t make Harry uncomfortable. 

 

(Harry’s Skyped him a few times when he’s on tour, panic in his eyes and shake in his hands, because there was just so  _ much  _ about sex in interviews or in concerts, and Louis knows how to fix it. Namely, soft validation followed by loving mockery. It’s his specialty.)

 

“I think so,” Harry responds, pained look in his eyes, “it’s fucking bullshit. It was, like, fine, you know? But I woke up feeling weird, and. I just.”

 

“Hey, shut up,” Louis pokes him in the nose, catching his hands with his own, “you know it’s not a burden. You being aceflux isn’t any less valid than me being ace, or Liam being poly, or Zayn and Niall being aro. You know that, and you know it’s not a burden.”

 

“Still, though, I just. Sorry.”

 

“Nope, I’m not letting you do this right now. We have to get ready, so stop pitying yourself and the most interesting thing about you and let’s go.”

 

Harry knows what he’s saying under it;  _ we can chill if you need it, if you need me I’m going to put you first, we don’t have to fake gross pda if you can’t right now.  _ But his eyes are fixed on Louis’s throat, and oh. 

 

“Is this gonna bother you?” Louis asks, because Harry always tries to be fucking slick and he just isn’t, has never been able to hide his feelings on anything.

 

Harry winces, and does a so-so gesture. “I think it’s just, like, knowing people are gonna add sexual connotations to it, you know? Even if I’m out, and everyone knows about me, some of them might make comments, and the thought of that…”

 

“Makes you feel ill, yeah?” When Harry nods, Louis presses a soft kiss to his forehead and stands. “I’m gonna go sort it.”

 

The marks are pretty, but they’re not worth any discomfort Harry’ll go through seeing them and having other people talk about them. Especially if pictures get posted online and they’re visible; he’s not out to the world the way he is to his family, and the world just. Isn’t as forgiving as the people closest to him.

 

Louis waves at him before he opens and closes the door, mentally counting the numbers of the doors until he gets to the one he knows Gemma’s in. 

 

He doesn’t even bother knocking, just opens the door and walks in, because Gemma’s one of those people who are always disgustingly on time and ready fifteen minutes after waking.

 

“Louis!” She’s in her en suite, and she pokes her head around the door. She’s all done up, a flowy white sundress and pretty sandals, and it reminds Louis briefly of one of the outfits Zayn used to wear all the time.

 

(Before he accidentally stained it with wine and cried for a week, and Louis replaced it with a pastel blue one of the same design.)

 

“Hey, Gems,” he watches as her eyes widen at the marks on his neck, and he just smiles a little sheepishly.

 

“Care to explain?” She wriggles her eyebrows, little mocking smile on her mouth like she knows Harry gave them to him, which. He admits, is a fairly obvious conclusion to come to, but still. He wishes he weren’t this transparent.

 

“I need concealer, if you have any? I don’t know how to, like, cover it up properly but. Harry’s having a negative day, so.” Her face morphs into a serious expression, like she’s about ready to tear the entire world apart for even partially making her brother upset when that’s her job, and really. Louis loves Gemma.

 

“Not to doubt your ability, but you’re gonna be shit at covering it. Hickey covering is a very subtle art and very few people hold the power to master it, and you’re not going to in half an hour. I’ll do it for you, just sit down.”

 

Louis settles down on her bed and waits for her, hearing her mumble about undertones and matching and understanding it only because Zayn’s fairly into makeup, when he can be bothered with it.

 

She wanders in after a couple minutes, tube of concealer and powder in hand, and Louis tilts his neck obligingly.

 

Gemma works quickly, concealer slathered on over darker marks and only lightly pasted on over the slightly faded lighter ones, and she starts blending it with her fingers only a minute after she’s started. She’s adept at it, and Louis would tease her, but she could probably strangle him with this vantage point, so he doesn’t.

 

“It’s not gonna be the best job, since I don’t have a concealer that properly matches you, but it’s as close as it’s gonna get.” She leans back, examining Louis’s neck with narrowed eyes, and then deems him fit for powdering.

 

Louis’s pretty sure she blows the powder up his nose on purpose, but he can’t be sure, so he doesn’t say anything, and it’s over as soon as it started.

 

“You’re done,” she announces, taking a short bow, “now get dressed.” She makes a shooing motion with her fingers, and he kisses her on the cheek and thanks her before he leaves and makes his way back down the corridor.

 

Harry’s just shimmying himself into a pair of skinny jeans when he opens the door, but he still glances at Louis’s neck. Louis doesn’t miss the look of relief that the marks are gone that crosses his face, and Louis sticks his tongue out at him.

 

“Yeah, whatever, go get dressed,” and Louis just smiles at him and shoves him straight over onto the bed. The sound of distress Harry makes is worth his weight in gold.

 

It doesn’t take Louis long to get dressed; he pulls on the jeans with the slits in the thighs and a soft black shirt and he looks presentable, and then all he has to do is wait for Harry to finish brushing his teeth so Louis can do the same.

 

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, relinquishing the sink, “for the, um, cover up thing.”

 

Louis flicks him in the forehead and mumbles, mouth full of toothpaste foam, “don’t be a wanker.”

 

Harry gives him a look Louis can’t quite decipher, and leans against the shower, and Louis pretends it doesn’t make his stomach squirm.

 

++

 

Harry’s whole family’s gathered in one of the giant gazebos in the gardens, and they don’t even blink when they turn up late. They know them too well, honestly.

 

“It’s basically a whole bonding thing,” Harry explains, glancing around before continuing, “but it’s just gonna be the both of us trying to convince people we’re together, honestly.”

 

Louis wrinkles his nose. “You know if you can’t handle any affection you can tell me, right? And I’ll stop right away.”

 

Harry rolls his eyes, mulish look on his face like he’s about to refuse any kind of help at all, and honestly, Louis doesn’t know what he sees in him.

 

“We need a signal for if either of us get uncomfortable.”

 

Harry looks Louis in the face, like he’s trying to see if Louis’s going to cave, but he fucking  _ isn’t,  _ because this is important whether Harry’s stubborn arse accepts that or not. And Louis’s meant to be the goddamn capricorn.

 

“How about,” Harry taps Louis’s wrist three times in quick succession, “does that work?”

 

Louis sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and nods. It’ll look fairly innocuous to anyone else; they have a bit of a reputation with everyone they’re related to that they’re practically incapable of being apart, so the signal will just look like an attention grabber to the unknowing eye. Harry’s pretty clever, for a traitor.

 

They reach Anne, and she gives them a huge grin and wraps Louis up in her arms.

 

Louis mouths ‘she loves me more’ over her shoulder, and Harry sticks his tongue out at him.

 

“You’re late,” Anne scolds, kissing Louis on the forehead and brushing off imaginary dust from his shoulders, “I don’t know why I expect you to be early any more, honestly.”

 

“But Anne, I would always be early to see your beautiful face,” Louis says, grinning, and she rolls her eyes.

 

“Behave, or I’m telling your mum about the time you tried to fight a teacher for them giving Harry a bad grade.”

 

Louis pales. That’d been easily the worst moment of his  _ life _ , and by the way Anne smiles innocently back at him she knows that. The whole family is made out of evil masterminds, he’s honestly convinced.

 

Harry wraps an arm around Louis’s waist, and Anne smiles softly at them.

 

“The whole itinerary is a bit of a mess,” she begins, “it’s mostly just playing board games and reconnecting before the wedding tomorrow. There’s a few random activities, but for the most part I think you just need to mingle.”

 

Louis nods and salutes at her, and she snorts like she knows all his secrets. Which, okay, wouldn’t be too far off the truth. 

 

“Oh, Harry,” she narrows her eyes and looks over Harry’s face, “your uncle John’s probably going to make some comment about you being pan and it being some kind of made up term, so please don’t try and fight him. He’s probably just jacked up on whiskey, you know how he gets.”

 

Harry sighs, and Louis’s reminded once again that there are people who really don’t deserve to know him. 

 

Harry came out a few years back to his family, and as kind as the majority is about it (like they should be), some of the more distant relatives are just plain arseholes about it. Louis’d almost punched Harry’s aunt Joan for trying to convince him he just needed to choose last year at Harry’s birthday party.

 

“You’ll make sure he won’t try and fight anyone, won’t you?” Anne asks, eyeing Louis like she knows where his mind’s going and she doesn’t like it. She’s always been a bit creepily aware of what he’s thinking; it’s like having a second mum.

 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

 

Anne snorts and turns away, before saying, “go and mingle, then, you heathens.”

 

++

 

“We always thought you two would end up together,” Harry’s aunt Pepper is insisting, “no one is that close after puberty, honestly.”

 

Louis snickers, thinking of how Zayn’d respond to that (“Love is a neurochemical con job and I don’t know what affection is, actually.”), and presses a soft kiss to Harry’s cheek.

 

“I suppose we’re lucky that we already had a built in soulmate, then,” Harry says, passing Louis one of Pepper’s famous bread rolls. God, he loves him. 

 

Louis tears out a chunk of the bread with his teeth, and has to hold back a moan. They really are the best rolls he’s ever had the privilege of eating. He feels so whole.

 

“Leave them alone,” Pepper’s wife, Alice, responds, looking exasperated like Louis always does when Harry starts trying to convince him of something that isn’t true. “Men are always so slow admitting their feelings, you can’t expect them to just not have eighty years of angst instead of clear communication.”

 

Louis grins around a mouthful of soft dough, and she rolls her eyes. “This is why I’m a lesbian, you see.”

 

Pepper grins and kisses her on the cheek, and Harry just smiles all softly, glint in his eye that looks almost wistful.

 

“Did anyone tell you there’s a tandem bike here?” Alice asks, cheeks pink like even after all this time she still can’t believe she’s lucky enough to have someone like Pepper, and it’s so like this morning when Harry kisses his neck his stomach hurts. “Last I saw, Gemma was trying to rope Matt into joining her, but I don’t think she was succeeding.”

 

Harry turns to give Louis a bright look, glow in his eyes and dimples already dipping into his cheeks, and  _ no. _ He’s not going to do it. He refuses to give in. He’s given in so fucking much the last month, he can’t just relent now, under Harry’s bright gaze.

 

“No,” he responds, “we’ll die.”

 

Harry tilts his head, and Pepper gives a knowing smile, and Louis considers the benefits of death before noon.

 

++

 

“This is a bad idea,” Louis insists, slinging his leg over the seat. He’s ninety percent sure they’re going to die.

 

“It is not a bad idea,” Harry responds, and his voice is so happy Louis can’t even be fucking angry, which is honestly just rude. “I’ve read about them before.”

 

“Because Wikipedia is a wealth of trustworthy information.” Louis deadpans, and Harry nods seriously.

 

Harry clambers onto the seat, helmet tugged tight over his head, and Louis feels the fight vacate his body. At least if he dies, he’s going to die knowing Harry’s happy.

 

Gross. He’s going to sue Zayn for being too sappy where Louis can read it and absorb it like a sponge.

 

“If we hit something, I’m making you pay for the bike.” So, sure, the bike’s technically free with the whole event, but  _ still.  _

 

“Yeah, okay.” Harry agrees, which is honestly worrying. Harry doesn’t agree to anything unless he’s aware he’s probably at least a little in danger.

 

Harry slowly starts pedalling, and Louis joins in, and it’s not even that bad. It’s actually pretty nice, if he’s going to be honest. Like some weird honeymoon photo.

 

And, God. Louis’s never really been into the idea of marriage, but something about the idea of being committed to Harry feels right, and. He has to stop before he kills them both.

 

But, Jesus, it feels nice for a moment, just thinking about getting to kiss Harry and mean it and still be best friends, because that’ll always be the foundation of everything they are. Just getting to acknowledge he loves Harry and have him say it back and mean it. It makes his stomach tighten, warmth twisting in his chest, and it’s only because he’s trying to stay on the little path of the gardens of the hotel that he stops himself from shivering.

 

“There’s a curve up here,” Harry says, pointing with one hand off the handlebars, and Louis jerks back into focusing, but it’s one second too late, and.

 

The bike comes to a screeching halt, and Louis smacks his helmet-covered head off the handlebars as they careen straight into a fucking tree. Louis shouldn’t feel smug, but he fucking does, even if this is mostly his fault because he was too focused on getting married to his best friend.

 

Tandem bikes are emotionally tiring and Louis has done nothing to deserve them.

 

“I told you so,” Louis mumbles, and he’s like ninety percent sure that’s blood running down his chin.

 

Harry makes a faint honking sound, flaps one hand in the air, and gently thumps his head off the handlebars.

 

Well. At least he has healthy coping mechanisms.

 

++

 

“D’you think we’re convincing them?” There’s a lump of gauze shoved up Louis’s nose to stop the rush of blood, and his voice comes out nasally and distorted. Harry’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, because he’s a traitor.

 

“That we don’t know how to ride a bike? Yes, absolutely. That we’re a couple? Maybe if I kiss you to heal your wounds.” Harry rolls his eyes, holding an icepack up to Louis’s chin. It doesn’t even hurt like his nose does (he can feel it throbbing, at this point, and it’s not exactly pleasant, but at least it isn’t broken), but Harry had insisted.

 

“Kiss me, my prince, my saviour, the love of my life-!” 

 

He’s cut off by Harry’s mouth on his, soft and gentle and sweet, and it hurts like a motherfucker with his nose and his jaw and the way Harry’s hand is still pressed tight to his skin, but it’s still Harry’s mouth, and honestly. What a gift.

 

Louis kisses back, hand splayed on Harry’s chest, and he’s hyperaware of the fact they’re definitely going to be seen kissing. At least it looks like they’re insatiable and find it impossible to stay apart for more than thirty seconds.

 

They’re sat in the gazebo, and it’s so open and airy that he’s honestly a little surprised no one’s stopped them yet, but he can’t say he’s disappointed. Harry’s mouth is his home.

 

Harry pulls back with a smirk, and Louis blinks away the haze in his head. He blames the leftover remnants of the daydream he’d had about them being legally bound; it’s definitely not because he’s in love with him. Definitely not. That’d be absurd, frankly, completely ridiculous.

 

“Does your nose still hurt?” Harry asks, glint in his eye, and Louis really fucking hates him. If he was sure he doesn’t know, he’d say he did. 

 

“No, just my heart and soul,” Louis says, pressing his hands to his chest, “have you really not improved your technique after all this time?”

 

Harry shoves his shoulder, and Louis just smiles innocently at him. 

 

“We should,” he flaps his hands around, and Harry’s eyes go fond, “go socialize. Mingle. Convince people we’re completely in love.”

 

A weird look flashes across Harry’s face, bright and unmasked and raw, but it’s gone as soon as Louis recognises it existing. It’s not bad; not repulsion, because Harry just closes off when he’s feeling like that; he’s sure he’s seen it before, but he can’t remember when, just hazy memories of shitty alcohol blurring the lines between the two startlingly similar expressions.

 

“Let’s go,” Harry holds a hand out, and Louis takes it with a bow.

 

The look makes him feel off-kilter, but he’s not even sure it’s in a bad way, and that’s maybe a little terrifying. 

 

Zayn would know what it means.

 

++

 

There’s a huge gaggle of elderly members of Harry’s family gossipping over by a tiny duck pond, and all of them minus one give Harry and Louis bright looks when they come over and sit down on the grass.

 

“Look who it is,” one of the older guys says, and there’s a look in his eye that Louis doesn’t like. Judging by the way Harry’s shoulders tense just slightly, he doesn’t either. So this must be John, then. “You picked a side, now?”

 

Harry plasters on a fake smile, and Louis feels a burst of hot anger crawl up his throat. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s heard it; being Harry’s friend (and really publicly at that) means that he gets inundated with a lot more gross biphobia and assumptions than a lot of other people, but it’s the first time it’s so intimately personal.

 

He wants to fight, but Anne would probably tear his head straight from his shoulders if he did.

 

“I’ve always been on Louis’s side,” Harry responds, voice saccharine sweet like he’s about to patronise him, “that’s why we’re together. That’s what being soulmates is about, isn’t it?”

 

Warmth curls again in Louis’s chest, but this time it isn’t tinged with rage. They’ve always talked about being soulmates; because there’s not only romantic soulmates, and thinking that is naive, but having Harry say it in this context is. A lot. Feels like something locks right into place and refuses to leave.

 

“Soulmates,” John responds, eyes narrowing, “that’s not what we called it when I was young.”

 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” a slightly younger woman next to John says, eyebrow arched, “when you were young I assume the idea of soulmates was still pretty new, wasn’t it?”

 

John scoffs, getting to his feet. “You’re saying you agree with all these newfangled terms?”

 

Louis can’t hold his tongue back any more, just fucking can’t, wants to tear into him and make him cry, which probably isn’t healthy. But fuck, Harry’s always been his to tease and mock lovingly, and this isn’t kind. This is cruel and meant to hurt, and he wants to hurt the old wanker as much as Harry looks hurt, dulled look in his eye.

 

“I expect that there’s been a lot of terms invented since you were young,” Louis begins, and Harry shoots him a look, “common decency surely isn’t one of them, though, is it?”

 

John gives him a blazing look, opens his mouth, closes it, and storms off. 

 

The lady who’d taken him down a peg a moment ago holds out her hand, grin bright on her face. 

 

“None of us like him,” Alice says next to her, the first time Louis’d noticed her, “he’s always been a bit of a fuckwit.”

 

Pepper smiles at them, producing a tupperware box of rolls. “Take one. You deserve it.”

 

Louis does, but not before Harry grins to himself and shoves at his shoulder.

 

He focuses mainly on the roll as the group starts chatting, Harry opening up more now that John’s fucked off to God knows where, picking bits off and chewing and barely listening.

 

“So how’d you two finally get together, then?” It’s one of the men who’d Louis had seen talking to Gemma before, when they were looking for the tandem bike, and he almost inhales the dough the wrong way.

 

“Valentine’s Day,” Harry responds, not skipping a beat, “I’ve loved him for years, and he kept asking me out on dates but I just assumed he meant in a platonic way. I spent a lot of time wishing they were dates, and then on Valentine’s Day he got frustrated and blurted out that was what it was, and we’ve been together since.”

 

Louis smiles, twining their fingers together as the group cooes excitedly. 

 

“True love is always the one you expect the least,” Pepper says, eyes twinkling, and there’s a huge chance she knows. There’s something in her eyes that makes Louis just a little bit anxious.

 

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Louis responds, and Harry smiles so warmly at him it hurts, “I think it’s always the one you expected most but never felt you deserved.”

 

“Fucking sap,” Harry mumbles, but there’s a dimple pressed into his skin, and when Louis presses a kiss to it, his skin goes pink.

 

Definitely never deserved.

 

++

 

It’s easy, for the rest of the day, mostly just telling their love story over and over, and Harry only need to tap his wrist once. By the time it’s eight and they’re both walking out of the dinner hall, sated and full, Anne’s given them a lecture about getting injured before a wedding (“it’s just poor manners, I taught you better than this!”), and everyone knows about them. 

 

It’s weirdly comforting, having everyone know and not really having anyone else try and start a fight. The few times they’ve seen John across the grounds, he’s just glared and walked off. Anne had gone to tell Louis off, but then she’d seen how uncomfortable Harry was, and she’d just quirked an eyebrow at John, too.

 

Louis loves her.

 

“That wasn’t so bad,” Harry says, leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator. There’s dried blood crusting in Louis’s nose, so he can’t say he agrees.

 

“Still have the actual wedding day to go, though,” Louis reminds him, and he lets out a pitiful whine.

 

“Least we can just chill, though,” Harry says, and his voice is weak but there’s faint hope still shining through, “since everyone already knows, and everything.”

 

Louis allows him that, because it looks like exhaustion’s sunk into his bones, so he just curls around his shoulders and leans against his neck. He smells like warmth and the chocolate cake they’d had for dessert.

 

They stumble out when the doors open, and it’s so like last night Louis’s suddenly sharply reminded of the covered up marks on his neck again, cheeks burning red. He’ll need to wash off the makeup, but he doesn’t want to make Harry uncomfortable or edgy.

 

“You still feeling negative?” Louis mumbles, voice muffled by Harry’s curls, and Harry raises one shoulder in a half-arsed shrug.

 

“Not much, why? Wanna get with this?” Harry asks, and his voice is light enough that Louis’s pretty sure he’s fine, now. Even if it changes again tomorrow, he can always ask Gemma to cover the marks up again. He just doesn’t want to sleep in day-old concealer.

 

“With your bloated post-meal body and still smelling faintly of misery and your own blood?” Louis asks, nipping at Harry’s throat, and a shiver rolls down his spine. Louis grins. He’s finally got one up on him.

 

“Haha,” Harry drones, “no, but why?”

 

“Gotta wash off the concealer, don’t I? I can’t sleep in it.”

 

Harry gives a considering noise, opening the door and pulling Louis through until they’re curled up against the pillows instead. Harry drags his fingers through Louis’s hair, and Louis’s eyes droop closed. It’s too early to sleep, but it’s really nice, tucked against Harry like this.

 

“Wanna Skype Zayn and Niall first?” Harry’s voice is soft, like he’s barely keeping himself from falling asleep, and Louis reaches for the phone tucked in Harry’s front pocket.

 

Liam’s probably out, but Niall and Zayn pretty much always pick up. They’re pretty boring, honestly.

 

He flicks through to Niall’s contact, ignoring Harry’s huff of indignation that he knows his password (because Louis can’t guess his own birthday, now, apparently), and clicks call.

 

It rings a few times before Niall picks up, not even paying attention to the screen, just talking to Zayn off-camera. They’ve been friends for too long to pay full, unerring attention to each other when video chatting, but then again they’ve never really paid full attention to each other. 

 

“Hey,” Zayn calls, wrapping around Niall, “didn’t think you’d try and talk to us tonight, honestly.”

 

“Ye of little faith,” Louis sing songs, hiding a smile when Niall kisses Zayn’s cheek.

 

“Zayn was trying to tell me about that time they threw someone out from the bar before I worked there, but I don’t believe them.” Niall looks into the camera with a quirked eyebrow, but Louis’s more interested in the deliberate pronoun change.

 

Zayn goes through a lot of pronouns, has ever since they came out, and they’ve never really liked making a huge deal out of it. Niall’s always been the one to drop the hint, and they’ve all become pretty adept at picking it up by now. Mostly because if Niall didn’t, no one would ever know, because Zayn always tries to act mysterious and just ends up hurting themself in the long run. Fucking selfless wanker. It makes Louis feel inferior.

 

Louis quirks his head at Zayn, and they just smile softly, and that’s all the confirmation he really needs. Sick.

 

“Was that the time you had an argument about cissexism with a customer?” Harry asks, and Louis snuggles into his chest and feels the way his voice reverberates underneath him.

 

“Okay, listen, fuck,” Zayn begins, their eyes going bright, “that happened one time, and I was drunk.”

 

“Oh, because you always need to be drunk to discuss trans issues, obviously.” Louis butts in, and Zayn just narrows their eyes.

 

“Shut up,” Zayn starts again, “this is a different story, anyway. So they were talking about how there should only be male and female bathrooms, right?”

 

Louis knows this story, so he just settles in and watches Niall’s face as he reacts. He’s so fond it’s a little disgusting, but he thinks that’s maybe what he looks like listening to Harry, which is. Awful.

 

“So, obviously, I just sit down at their table and talk to them and they start digging themselves a grave. Talk about how there’s only two genders and isn’t it fucking ridiculous, and I’m sat there, like, agender flag shirt on, little pin about pronouns on my collar that they can’t see, and just wait for the right entry.” Zayn takes a pause, smile on their face, like this is the best memory they’ve ever had, which Louis could see being the truth.

 

“They ask me about my opinions, if I had any say in the ‘neutral bathroom bullshit’ and if I could tell the manager to piss off, and I just smile at them and go ‘I suppose I could take that issue up with myself, but you’ll need to get the fuck out of my bar, first’, and  _ fuck _ , they went pale. They just started looking all angry and worried, started spouting bullshit, and I got tired, just smacked their heads off each other, and they scarpered. I’ve never felt so whole.”

 

Niall looks at Zayn like they hung the stars in the sky, and Louis snorts and tangles his and Harry’s fingers together. 

 

Hearing Zayn talk about things they’ve had to deal with running their bar is simultaneously pride inducing and a little terrifying. The idea of them getting hurt makes Louis’s stomach churn, and he wishes he could do something to help, but Zayn always insists there’s nothing he can do. That his bar’s as safe as it can be considering, but Louis worries.

 

Still, it’s incredible hearing them talk about something like this, knowing how fucking smart they are and how well they can handle themself, how good they are at dealing with shit like this. Especially when they spent a long time resenting it. It’s warm and cozy, like home, talking about them with this, in different locations but always on the same page.

 

If Harry didn’t exist, Zayn’d be his best mate in the world, but then. All of them would be, if he’s being honest. They’re all friends for a reason, after all; they fit together, and they always have, even moreso now, when they all have different career paths.

 

Louis loves all of them so fucking much it hurts, but he refuses to tell them that. They’d use it against him when he was weak and vulnerable.

 

“So how’ve you been, then? Everyone surprised and shocked by this incredible change in your relationship?” Zayn asks, and Niall grins manically when they press a soft kiss to his mouth. Gross.

 

“Fuck off, you smug wanker.” Louis grumbles, and Harry snickers.

 

“A lot of ‘em said they knew,” Harry admits, “but most of the drama of the day came from when we crashed a tandem bike into a tree and Louis started pissing blood.”

 

Louis scoffs, even though his cheeks go pink, because he doesn’t want to think about marriage right now. He doesn’t. Especially not to Harry. That’d be wrong, and bad, and. Other awful things.

 

“I blame your poor coordination,” Louis mumbles, burying his face in Harry’s neck so he doesn’t have to look at the screen. Zayn’s always eerily in tune with his thoughts, and they have no issue with exposing them to the world at large.

 

“I blame you being distracted by my otherworldly beauty.” Harry’s voice is teasing, but a shock rolls up Louis’s spine anyway. There’s no possible way he could know what Louis was thinking about. It’d require mind reading skills, and Louis’s at least eighty percent sure Harry doesn’t have any of those.

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Zayn mumbles under their breath, and Louis pokes his head back out to glare at them sternly. 

 

Niall snickers, eyes bright, and it’s forgotten.

 

They keep talking; Louis gives the story about John, and Harry keeps glaring at him disapprovingly, and Niall and Zayn talk about how Liam had tried to insist that their tv set was antique. Zayn had got so offended they’d cried, and Liam had panicked and knocked over their vase, but it was fine after.

 

It’s relieving, hearing them both talk and knowing that even though it feels like it, they’re still alive. Being here feels a bit like they’re cut off from the rest of the world, like it’s just this hotel room and the gardens and nothing else, but hearing Zayn laugh at some shitty joke Niall’s told brings him back. 

 

Not in, like, a sappy loving way. That’s impossible. Louis doesn’t even have emotions.

 

“We should go soon,” Zayn says, and Louis snaps back to attention, watching their eyes dull a little. It’s pretty sweet, honestly, how they get excited by speaking to their friends. Fucking loser. “It’s ten, now, and we’re going to a movie at twelve.”

 

Louis rolls his eyes, trying to stamp down the burst of sadness. Zayn and Niall always go to the movies at night; say they’re prettier and there’s something more calming about them. Louis thinks it’s bull, but then Zayn says the same about the fact Louis says he’s practically a professional nail artist.

 

“Alright, losers,” Louis mumbles, and Harry flicks him on the ear.

 

“Night, arseholes.” Niall grins, and pushes his face close to the camera and kisses it before shutting it off.

 

Louis blinks up at Harry, cheek smushed against his shoulder, and Harry just smiles and turns off the phone.

 

“Early night?” His voice rumbles against Louis’s ear, and he resolutely does not shiver at the feel of it.

 

“Yeah,” Louis mumbles, dragging the duvet over the both of them, “early night.”

 

++

 

Harry wakes him up by shoving him onto the floor, which is both cruel and unnecessary, and Louis just lays there and grumbles for a while. He plans on getting really, spectacularly drunk tonight, because they don’t have to drive back until tomorrow.

 

“Get dressed.” Harry shoves a toe between Louis’s ribs, and he doesn’t even have the energy to try and push him right over. He’s so tired, even though it’s nine and they’d slept for nearly a full twelve hours. “You’re ugly and no one deserves to see you like this.”

 

Louis narrows his eyes. Ugly his arse. As if he hadn’t watched Harry vomit down his own top after asking someone out and having them turn him down. (Like, he was spectacularly drunk, but. He still vomited, is Louis’s point.)

 

“Remember when Niall made a pass at me before we were friends?” Louis asks, and Harry grins.

 

It’s one of the (many) stories Louis uses to embarrass the everloving fuck out of Niall, dramatically reliving how Niall had planted himself at Louis’s table and mumbled ‘you’re cute I like you wanna date’ under his breath. Louis’d come out all of a week ago, so it wasn’t like he was really ready, and if he was being honest Niall didn’t look to be really interested in the dating part anyway. He mostly looked like he just thought Louis was pretty, not like he was pining, which. Looking back on, makes a lot of sense.

 

He and Niall have had a lot of conversations, over the years, about the parallels of their attraction. Niall’s aro and not ace, but they still share a lot of feelings about sensual attraction and aesthetic attraction; which is, like, the absolute fucking worst. 

 

Louis spent three months of school having a gross crush on Zayn, before realising that Zayn really wasn’t into that concept themself. (He’d tried to platonically matchmake Niall and Zayn, upon realising, but they’d become best friends. Of course, then it ultimately turned into what they are now, but.)

 

He supposes his matchmaking wasn’t so off, after all.

 

“And how he refused to look you in the eye for a month after? Oh, and how he thought that meant we were together, because we were ‘weirdly close’?”

 

Louis swallows down the things he wants to say  _ well he’s not wrong; did you ever know; do you know now? _ , just hauls himself to his feet and shuffles over to his opened suitcase. Harry’s stolen a pair of his pants, Louis can make out the band above Harry’s tight suit trousers, but nothing else. Well. Whatever floats his fucking boat, he guesses.

 

His balls are going to be crushed into the next dimension by tonight, but that seems to be, like, his Thing, so. Not worth worrying about his testicles’ untimely death, is the point.

 

“What do I wear?” Louis yawns, wrist deep in his own jeans. He can’t wear jeans to a wedding, can he? Is that classy enough? Even if he’s not a close relative?

 

“D’you bring that blazer?” Harry asks from the bathroom, already somehow in his jeans and his bottom three buttons done up on his shitty flowy black shirt. (It’s nice, honestly, but Louis’s not gonna say that. He has pride.)

 

“Yeah,” he yanks the blazer from the bottom of the suitcase, and it’s crumpled but it looks like it’s done artistically, so it’ll do.

 

“Wear that with your skull t-shirt under it and the jeans with the,” Harry makes a gesture, all flinging hands and wrinkled nose, and Louis nods in agreement.

 

He picks out the shirt and then the black jeans with rips on the thighs that look like they’re meant to be there but aren’t, and figures it’s good enough. Harry agrees, so even if it isn’t, he can blame it on him. Friendship.

 

Harry slumps over the bed and watches while he wriggles into his clothes, toothbrush still hanging out of his mouth, and Louis rolls his eyes and shrugs on his shirt. Harry looks -sweet. He looks good, all comfort and softness, and it’s lovely but it’s also irritating because trying to not be in love with this asshole is  _ hell _ . 

 

He pulls on the blazer over the shirt, and he has to admit he’s  _ cute.  _ Like, real fucking cute. Like, if he wasn’t completely ace, he’d almost say sexy, but he is, so he’ll stand with cute.

 

“How’s it look,” he pops out a hip, wriggling his eyebrows up and down, and Harry’s cheeks tint a little bit. Interesting.

 

“Nice,” Harry says, voice cracked, “you look great, babe, honestly.”

 

Louis can work with great. He’s worked with it all his life; he’s just amazing.

 

He wanders through into the bathroom to brush his teeth, and listens to the sounds of Harry’s ungainly huge feet follow him. Harry’s a little like a duckling in that he just… follows you… everywhere. He does it to everyone, which takes out the fun of Louis obsessing over it, if he’s being honest, but he does it to Louis  _ most.  _

 

He jams the toothbrush in his mouth and Harry deposits his toothbrush back in the holder, and then stands there watching him, slight grin on his face. There’s a little bit of toothpaste on the side of his mouth.

 

Louis washes his mouth out, shoves the toothbrush back, and turns his head back to Harry.

 

“You’ve got some,” he rubs at the side of his mouth. Harry follows the motion with his own thumb, but he rubs the wrong side of his face.

 

Fuck it. If he wants to be in a fucking teenage sitcom he can.

 

“No, it’s,” he leans into Harry’s space, arches one eyebrow, and waits for Harry’s slight nod of assent. He presses a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, tasting the mint from Harry’s own lips on his, and it’d be intoxicating, but Harry’s a fucking nerd, so it’s not. 

 

It’s, like, sure it’s  _ sweet _ , and sure it makes him want more, the romantic pull burning low in his gut, but Harry’s just Harry, and while he’s amazing he’s still just a person, still his best friend. Still the person who tried to punch him one time when Louis refused to let him climb an eight foot tree.

 

Louis licks at his bottom lip, and Harry tracks it with his eyes. He smirks.

 

“You wanna snog?” He asks, voice lilting and high, like he does when he’s fucking with someone. (Mainly Harry, honestly, but still.)

 

Harry curls his fingers around the back of his neck, bends his head back, and presses a bruising kiss to his mouth. His stomach presses against the lowest part of Louis’s ribs, and Louis hopes to god he can’t feel the way his heart’s started racing in his chest. He can’t expose himself like that.

 

Harry’s other hand presses into his waist, all burning hot fingers and pressure, just the way Louis loves it, and then he pulls back, forehead pressed against Louis’s.

 

Louis moves into it again, but Harry steps back, smirk on his face.

 

“I think you cleaned your teeth right,” he says, dimple digging into his cheek, “we’re gonna be late, though, so. Get a move on, what you waiting for?”

 

Louis’s going to fucking  _ murder  _ him.

 

++

 

The ceremony doesn’t start ‘til half eleven, so Louis’s spending his spare half hour Facetiming Liam.

 

Harry’s fucked off to God knows where, but he’s probably going to cry, so he’s not going to interrupt.

 

“You seen Zayn and Niall?” Louis asks, when Liam finally picks up. His hair’s sticking up at the back like it always does after he’s woken up, and there’s a shadow of scruff on his chin. He was probably up until three last night polishing his antiques again. 

 

“Niall messaged me about one last night saying Zee was using they pronouns for the foreseeable future,” Liam says, “said he forgot to update me because they kept distracting him with kisses.”

 

“Gross,” Louis grins, fond to his toes, “they went to a movie last night, apparently. Proper date-y, and all.”

 

Liam sighs, wrapping one arm around his face. “When will I, a humble polysexual, get to go on dates?”

 

Louis smirks, leaning back against the brick of the hotel. Liam doesn’t date, is the thing. He’s had girlfriends in the past, a couple nonbinary partners, but nothing long term. He gets whiny occasionally, when he gets phases of wanting cuddles, but then Louis, Niall and Zayn usually just snuggle around him while Harry bakes him something to get his mind off it.

 

They have a system.

 

“Maybe when you start actually liking them?” Louis responds, blowing out air through his teeth, just because he knows it pisses Liam off.

 

As expected, Liam lets out a grunt and glares at him, brown eyes crinkled up in slits.

 

“How come Zayn and Niall, the literal aromantics, got to date before I did?” Liam’s got his pout voice on, head pressed back against his pillows, and Louis snorts.

 

“Because Zayn’s, like, a pro at communication even though they insist they aren’t? And you’re, I’m not trying to be rude, but you’re shit at it, love.”

 

Liam nods. Louis’s not wrong. He’s never wrong.

 

“How you holdin’ up?” Liam asks, and his voice is gentle, all sleepy and kind, and Louis bites his lip.

 

He’s not regretting this thing with Harry, he isn’t, because he’d go to war for Harry. He loves him, so fucking much it burns, sometimes, he’d do anything to keep him comfortable and content, but. Acting in love is too easy, is the issue. Letting himself show how he actually, genuinely feels about Harry is too easy, like breaking down a dam after years of carefully putting the logs in place.

 

Or some other shitty metaphor. It’s too easy, too simple, and he’s worried it’s just going to completely expose him by the end of this whole thing. 

 

“Okay,” Louis responds, and catches movement in the corner of his eye. Harry’s wandering over to him, two small glasses of water in hand, and he glances down at Liam.

 

“Harry’s coming.” Liam says, not a question because he knows Louis too fucking well, and Louis sighs. “You got that gross look on your face like you were gonna explode, or something.”

 

“Shut up,” Louis hisses, “he’s here.”

 

Harry finally gets to him, and Liam hurriedly says, “I’ve got to go, see you later!”

 

The call ends, and Louis shoves his phone back in his pocket and takes the little cup of water.

 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Louis grins, and he fucking  _ knows  _ that smile’s back, the one that makes him look radiant but shows every part of how much he’d do for Harry.

 

Harry grins back, tucking the cup into his mouth and drinking, and Louis rolls his eyes when a dribble makes its way down his chin. Horrendous.

 

It’s a wonder he hasn’t fallen out of love with him. But. God hates him. Fantastic.

 

++

 

The ceremony’s. Well, it’s fucking beautiful, is the thing.

 

Harry sits pressed to his side the entire time, dopey look on his face like he’s halfway to braining himself out of sheer passion, and it makes Louis’s chest do that funny thing, twitching and warm. The bride’s literally gorgeous, cheeks flushed and not even shedding a tear, and when she gets to her (soon-to-be) husband, Harry blows his nose on his sleeve, like some sort of hideous slime being made entirely of mucus.

 

How he’s friends with him, he’ll never know.

 

“We are gathered here today,” the priest begins, and Louis’s into romance, he is, but he can’t handle this right now. 

 

He’s still half asleep and he has Harry’s teeth marks on his throat, and all he can think about is that he wants this with the boy beside him. He doesn’t want to be in the seats watching, he wants to be able to know he loves Harry and it’s reciprocated the exact same way, that his love isn’t ever going to be unrequited again, because he put a goddamn ring on it.

 

Harry’s hand curls into his, and it’s sweet, but it feels a little like drowning.

 

++

 

The best part about weddings is getting so horrifically drunk that you make a mess out of yourself in front of people you’ve never met and getting to forget about it.

 

The worst part about weddings is being in love with your fake boyfriend and having to pretend everything is fine when it isn’t, and the fact the buffet’s out of pasta salad.

 

It’s only 1pm, and people are already halfway to tipsy, which Louis can understand (he’s two glasses of wine down and he’s hunting down the champagne), but he needs a breather. He needs a break, fucking hell, he needs to have some time to himself that doesn’t feel like he’s making a massive mistake.

 

Because he is. He can deny it as much as he wants, but this is a mistake; he’s dangling the possibilities in front of himself and he’s never going to have arms long enough to reach it, and the fact of the matter is, it hurts.

 

It’s hurt since he fell in love with Harry, and it’s gotten worse since, all that time spent with him and all that time spent without him while he was touring; it gutted him raw, like someone had sunk their fingers into his chest and pressed down until his heart finally gave up.

 

It’s hurting badly now, when he can see everyone’s in love, the way that it’s meant to be; reciprocated and loving and kind, and he and Harry love each other, but Louis loves him in a different way, like fire in his lungs.

 

Christ, even Zayn and Niall (two people who’ve never felt romantic attraction in their lives), have a gentler relationship. He and Harry are loving, are caring, but it’s not in the way they are; wholebodied and caring, with kissing that isn’t there to be staged.

 

He’s hidden on a fucking bridge looking into the water below him, and all he can think about is if it’d be easy to drown in three inches of water. Maybe if he tried hard enough.

 

But. Maybe if he’d tried hard enough, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Maybe if he’d tried hard enough, he wouldn’t be in love with Harry, and he wouldn’t be so easily swayed by him, and maybe if he’d tried harder he’d-.

He’d what? Be happier? Be with someone else?

 

Even the thought makes his stomach churn with anxiety, and he hates it, that being in unrequited love with Harry is his norm, now, his being, the anchor to his rope. He keeps him grounded and he doesn’t even know it.

 

They’re faking being boyfriends and Louis’s never going to get to keep it.

 

He wishes he were drunk. He wishes he were drunk enough he couldn’t stand and that he was sat with Niall and talking about how romance is a myth, how love is a plain lie, he wishes he could ignore the gut-cramping ache that being without Harry in any capacity causes.

 

And, of course, that’s the moment Harry’s gangly ass stumbles into his patch of the woods.

 

“Lou?” His voice is soft, gentle, the way it gets after a couple glasses of wine, and Louis knows if he turned around now his mouth would be stained red, and fuck. Fuck, he wants so badly.

 

“Harry,” He lets himself take a breath, clenching his hands, turns to face Harry (the love of his fucking life, even if he’ll never know it), and sees. 

 

Harry’s fucking face, all but two feet away, dimples carved deep and hair tied back into a bun and so beautiful it’s like staring into the sun, like watching an eclipse and knowing you shouldn’t.

 

“You wanna step of the edge?” He looks all concerned, like he’s worried, actually worried, and.

 

Louis hadn’t even realised he’d been walking along those railings, the rickety ones with a few too many cracks to be safe, and he shrugs and stays there, because. Because moving means brushing past Harry, and he can’t, not right now, not when his feelings are fucking everywhere and he feels like he’s choking himself on them.

 

“You’re going to hurt yourself, babe.” 

 

And Louis snaps. He can’t, can’t fucking look into Harry’s face like the sun and think  _ I can handle this for our friendship _ , because their friendship’s strong and if Harry’s the person he thinks he is then. Then, he won’t fucking care, right? He won’t abandon him, and it might be awkward for a while, but it’s not going to destroy them.”   
  
“You’ve already hurt me.” 

 

His hands are shaking, and he’s this close to falling off into the three-inch deep water and ruining the concealer over Harry’s goddamn teeth marks, and Harry’s eyes are wide like he’s actually in pain, like he doesn’t know how to handle this.

 

And yeah. Fucking Christ, Louis knows the feeling.

 

“What did I do? Louis, tell me what I did. I want to fix it, please, I’d never want to hurt you.”

 

Louis breathes. Looks up. Lets his stomach tighten momentarily. Thinks about the way the sunshine hits the edge of Harry’s face like gold dust, how if he says this it won’t go back to the same thing, no matter what.

 

“This. This whole fucking thing, Harry, it’s too much, it’s too fucking much, I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin. Like, fuck, I love your mum, I don’t want to lie to her, or your fucking family, if it even counts as lying. It hurts, Harry, like you’ve fucking shot me, and I don’t understand why I’m always so fucking weak for you.”

 

His voice cracks halfway through, and Harry’s eyes are watering, like he’s snapped inside himself, and Louis catches the twitch of his thumb; he wants to go through Wikipedia, because Louis’s gone and made him anxious and hurt him, because he’s made of shrapnel and knives and he’s undeserving.

 

“I thought this is what you wanted,” Harry’s voice is trembling, “Louis, I’m sorry, I thought you wanted this. I didn’t mean to ruin this. Or us, fuck, I never did.”

 

And here it is. Louis’s grand fucking moment. The one he’s been waiting for since he stopped seeing Harry as Innocent Best Friend and started to see him as Lover’s Potential.

 

“I was ruined for anyone else the second I met you.”

 

Harry takes in a breath, says, voice choked, “Louis?”

 

And Louis barrels on, because he’s said it now, he’s fucking done it, might as well shove the tombstone in at the same time, why not? It’s going to be different anyway, it’s going to be unlike the friendship they’ve had since they were nine and seven.

 

“I fell in love with you,” Louis smiles, even though he isn’t happy, “God help me, I fell in love with you. A long fucking time ago, and I don’t know what anything else feels like any more. It’s like, I look at you, and I see everything I’ve ever wanted, and it feels like getting stabbed through the gut, only worse, because I still want more. I’d let myself get ruined for you over and over because I’ve never known how to stop loving you, and that’s the truth.”

 

Harry’s jaw is trembling, and there’s tears on his cheeks, and Louis wants him to say something, anything, because he’s sort of spiralling and this is a lot and really, why the  _ fuck did he think this was a good idea _ ?

 

“I wasn’t drunk.” Harry sets his jaw, and his deep voice is too much when Louis’s halfway to wine-drunk and all of the way to panic attack anxiety. “That first time we ever kissed, I wasn’t drunk. I was tall even then, Louis, and beer hasn’t got a high alcohol content, you know that. I just wanted your mouth on me, and I figured if I pretended -. Well. I figured if I pretended, I’d get what I want, but it only made me love you more.”

 

Louis’s gut aches. It fucking aches, like bullet wounds and anxiety and all his hopes in the entire world all in one, lead-heavy bomb, sat in his stomach.

 

“Harry,” his voice is shaking, and he won’t cry, he won’t fucking cry, he can’t, “you were sixteen.”

 

“You were eighteen. But you were fifteen when I fell in love with you. Truth is, I can’t remember what it feels like not to be arse over tit for you. I just know I’d rather it this way than anything else.”

 

They’re close, now, and Louis’s breathing hard, thinking  _ fuck fuck fuck finally please God don’t be fucking with me you gigantic asshole, please _ . Harry’s hand wraps around his wrist, hand trembling, warm, big and fitting so well it’s like a puzzle slotting into place.

 

“Louis,” Harry’s eyes settle on him, “can I kiss you?”

 

And, well. Louis’s been done for since he eighteen years old, since Harry was all short curls and red-lipped smile and cherub cheeks and singing in the shower, and he’s never been good at turning Harry down.

 

He kisses him. It’s different.

 

It’s good. It’s reciprocated and it’s warm and it feels like everything from before but intensified, because now Louis’s allowed to touch, he’s allowed to feel, and he does. He presses a hand to Harry’s neck, and Harry wraps one arm around his back and pulls him so close all he can smell is cologne and Harry’s posh shampoo.

 

Louis whimpers, and when he opens his mouth he can taste Harry’s tears, and it’s depressing but at the same time- they’re here. They’re here, and they’re in love. And it’s not just Louis on this side of the tracks any more.

 

“Fuck.” Harry’s voice reverberates against Louis’s tongue, and Louis smiles in response. “Talk about dramatic.”

 

And Louis laughs, really laughs, for the first time since Harry kissed him when he was eighteen.

 

++

 

They tell the others when they get back the next morning, and Niall sighs and Liam tries to be subtle, but he sees the way Zayn fists a tenner into his hand, and he doesn’t even care.

 

They can bet on he and Harry all they want. He’s been playing the long game, and he’s always been playing to win.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://polysamory.co.vu/) | [fic post](http://polysamory.co.vu/post/157215009576/if-you-love-me-harrylouis-35k-words-x%0A/)
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated and encouraged :+)


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